A/N: I swear, I'm done after this. But I was thinking about cats (since I'm a cat person) and House and Wilson's happy ending, if I were the one giving it to them. And I had to write this.
No slash. Perfect friendship.
3-)
Cats, Rats, and Dogs
or, How House and Wilson Made Home
by Marie S. Crosswell
"One must love a cat on its own terms."
-- Paul Gray
One morning, House wakes up and limps out to his kitchen for coffee. He stops a yard short of the pot where it waits on the kitchen counter and stares down at the cat sitting in front of him. The cat stares back.
"Who are you?" says House.
The cat doesn't answer. House rolls his eyes and makes for the coffee pot, the cat moving out of his way and slinking up against the nearest cupboards, tail in the air. House pours coffee into a mug and drinks some of it, before turning and picking up the cat. He sees it already has a collar with a nametag.
Hitchcock. Wilson's cell phone number.
House muffles a sigh and drops the cat before moving back toward the bathroom. It figures, he thinks.
About a year after House got out of Mayfield, Wilson finally sold Amber's apartment. He showed up on House's doorstep with two suitcases, and for the first few months, he slept on the couch he'd become so well-acquainted with in the past. He began migrating to House's bed after a depressing, drunken night; they never talk about it. Somehow, it isn't as awkward as either one of them thought it would be. House can be a restless sleeper, and Wilson ends up back on the couch some nights. When the pain keeps House awake, he paces through the apartment or sits on the couch and drinks; he doesn't play the piano like he used to because it would wake Wilson.
This time's different than the times before. Permanent. Wilson doesn't have to tell House, and House doesn't need to ask. They just know. House does the dishes on most of his appointed nights and doesn't play pranks, and Wilson's things gradually spread through every room, looking as if they always belonged.
They throw each other out for the night often enough. As much as House secretly prefers living with Wilson to living alone, he still needs his solitude. Wilson takes women to hotels, and House doesn't pay attention to sex much anymore. Hw takes the bike for a ride when he needs to get away and clear his head; Wilson goes for walks.
House's team and ex-team know about this living arrangement, along with Cuddy, but nobody says anything. They all just figure that both men looking a little relieved is a good thing, not worth disturbing. Nobody's too surprised—almost like they knew it was inevitable. It kind of surprises House, on the other hand, that the question hasn't come up: whether or not he and Wilson are screwing. Not that he would care if the world thought so, although it'd probably bug Wilson.
The morning the cat appears, House shows up to work late as usual; Taub, Foreman, and Thirteen already have a new case on the table. But House doesn't care right away. First, he says,
"Wilson is a dog person."
They look at him, as he drops his backpack on the floor next to the whiteboard and limps over to the sink and the coffeepot.
"Did you get a dog?" Foreman says.
"No," says House. "But apparently, he got a cat. Which doesn't make any sense because he's a dog person."
"You must be wrong," says Thirteen, shrugging her shoulders. "If he got a cat, he's got to like them."
House gawks at her, the red mug in his hand.
"You're talking about Wilson here, right? Wonder oncologist, serial divorcee, comes over here to spice up the annoying choir every few weeks? His face has I heart my golden retriever written all over it."
"We've got a patient," says Taub. House sips his coffee.
"He didn't mention it," House says. "I woke up this morning and it was in my kitchen. And if he didn't mention it, that means he got the cat for some particular reason that he doesn't want to talk about."
"Okay—are we doing a differential on why Wilson decided to get a cat?" says Taub.
"Maybe it marks a new phase in your relationship," says Foreman. "A sign of commitment."
House glares at him and then rolls his eyes. Foreman smiles innocently.
"The time for gay jokes was the first month he moved in, two tops," says House.
"Why don't you just ask him?" says Thirteen. "Can we get to the case, please?"
House nods and doesn't mention it again, but the cat stays in the back of his mind the rest of the morning.
He doesn't find Wilson in the cafeteria around lunchtime, so he takes a Reuben and bottled water back to his office. He and his team have already ruled out a dozen or so possible diagnoses for their new patient, who hasn't gotten worse yet. House watches General Hospital and tries to figure out the cat. When the show's over, he heads over to Cuddy's office and finds her behind the desk, on the phone.
"Cuddy," he says, limping across the room and plopping into a chair. "Your breasts are looking particularly perky today. Were you waiting for me?"
Cuddy hangs up the phone and gives him a flat look.
"What do you want, House?"
House folds his hands over the arch of his cane.
"Why would Wilson get a cat?"
"How should I know?" says Cuddy. "And why are you wasting my time with this?"
"I have idiots for a team, not that that's new. They haven't got any ideas."
"Why don't you act like a normal person for once and ask Wilson? He's got an office next to yours, for God's sake."
"Because I won't get an honest answer. If he wanted me to know why, he would've told me. He would've brought it up. That's usually what people do when they live together—they talk about making a change when they want to make one."
"Why, House. I didn't know you watch Dr. Phil."
"Funny. You going to give me anything or not?"
Cuddy gets up from her desk and moves toward the door. House stands up and turns toward her, leaning on his cane.
"House, he's your friend," she says, about to leave. "You should be able to figure it out."
House doesn't see Wilson all day; he figures that's deliberate. He leaves the hospital around six o'clock and goes home to find Hitchcock the cat lying on the couch. House dumps his backpack and his jacket and retrieves a beer bottle from the fridge. He sits in the armchair to the left of the couch, opens the beer, sips, and stares.
"What do you mean?" he says.
The cat glances at him, then looks away. House drinks and studies the cat. It's an orange shorthair, yellow eyes. A white chest and one white paw, the front right. House wonders if that's significant. He wouldn't put it past Wilson.
House sits back in the chair and takes his time on the beer. Once he drains it, he lights a cigarette—an addiction he developed in rehab as a kind of demi-replacement for the Vicodin. The cat crinkles his nose at the smoke and jumps off the couch, disappearing behind the piano.
An hour goes by before Wilson shows up. House has his feet up on the coffee table and the cigarette's almost done. He shifts his eyes to look at Wilson, who says hey and sets his briefcase on the floor next to the coat hanger. He turns on the lamp next to the couch on his way to the kitchen, and House winces at the light. He listens to Wilson open the refrigerator, the clinking of glass and the hiss of another beer opening. Wilson shuffles over and sinks onto the couch. House has his eyes closed again, head resting against the back of his chair.
"You okay?" says Wilson. House hums in response. If not for the added intimacy he and Wilson have gained through living together, along with their privacy, he would snap at the question. But Wilson sees him too much now for House to consider the concern annoying.
"I didn't see you today," Wilson says.
"I figured you were avoiding me," says House. "So I'd have time to consider your little addition."
"Right. Because I, being well-adjusted, would assume that you'd need time to think about a cat."
"You being you and knowing me, laid low because the cat means something. And you wanted me to pick it apart because you're an irritating bastard."
"Maybe I just wanted a cat."
"You're a dog person," says House, eyes still shut.
"Why? Because my last wife happened to have one? The dog was hers, not mine."
"You have dog shining out of your every pore. And those puppy brown eyes you've been using to get laid since you were 15."
"17," says Wilson. "And you can't just label someone a dog person or a cat person based on their physical appearance."
"Fine," says House, eyebrows rising and falling. "You have a dog personality, too. Loyal, attention whoring, easily satisfied, a food junkie, etc. You're a dog person."
"Dogs are great. Never said I had a problem with them. I just figured I'd like a cat around for a change. Besides, you're a cat person."
House opens one eye at Wilson. Then closes it.
"No, actually, I'm a no-living-thing-to-take-care-of-but-me person. Plus, I've got Steve, who you obviously didn't think of."
"Steve lives in a cage."
"Cats can reach inside."
"No, they can't. Not inside his."
"So I'm just supposed to never let him out again? He was here first."
"Hitchcock won't eat him. Steve's a big rat."
"Doesn't need to eat him, just torture him."
"You care about Steve's psychological well-being? That's a shock."
House sighs and breathes sleepy, Wilson notices. The cigarette's still in between House's fingers in his right hand, smoked down to the filter.
"You want dinner?" Wilson says.
"No," says House. "Think I'll just go to bed. Didn't sleep well last night."
Wilson stands up and takes the cigarette stub from House's hand. House opens his eyes and looks at him for a second, then pushes himself up to his feet. He limps away to the bedroom,
Wilson returns to the kitchen, setting his beer on the island and taking down from a cupboard the herbal heat pad he bought for House a few months back. He shoves it in the microwave and sets the heat time for one minute. While he waits, only light in the kitchen from the microwave, Wilson ponders House's rough sleep. Maybe it's mild insomnia; maybe House is more depressed than usual.
Wilson knows he shouldn't overanalyze, but it's hard not to, when House keeps everything to himself. He's gotten better at communicating to Wilson about the leg pain, but he still won't say anything unless Wilson asks.
Wilson still thinks House would benefit from anti-depressants, which he's still on himself. But it's a dead issue with House. The idiot would rather feel everything just as it is.
Wilson takes the heat pad from the microwave and goes to the bedroom. House is already on his side of the bed, dozing off, and Wilson does his best to be quiet. He lifts the comforter up and lays the pad on House's thigh. House inhales a sharp breath but relaxes, fingers clutching Wilson's shirt sleeve cuff for a fleeting moment.
The next morning, when House's alarm goes off at nine o'clock, Wilson's gone already as usual. It takes House a little while to notice the warm spot on his left side, around his hip. He looks down and sees two yellow eyes. Hitchcock is pressed against him, purring. House muffles a sigh. The cat stands up and steps onto House's belly, crossing over to his right side. House doesn't expect the hard pressure on his bad thigh.
"Ow! Fuck!" he says.
He's about to shove the cat away but stops when he sits up enough to see the cat kneading his leg with both front paws. It begins to feel good. The cat looks at House, and House stays quiet, despite his relentlessly disapproving glare.
"No claws," he says. Then lies back down.
"I am not a cat person," says House, walking into his team's conference room. Foreman lifts his eyebrows.
"You a dog person?"
"I'm a nothing person. Dogs are annoying, cats shed, and everything else is just pointless."
"You have a rat."
"That's different."
"House has a rat?" says Thirteen.
"Patient's got a new symptom," says Taub. "Light sensitivity."
"Wilson says the cat is because I'm a cat person," says House.
"You don't even want the thing," says Foreman.
"Exactly. So what does that mean?"
"What's his name?" says Thirteen.
"Hitchcock," says House. "Because Wilson is just that lame."
"Is there some deeper meaning to the name too?" says Foreman, smirking.
House makes a face at him.
Wilson's been having a dream. He hasn't told anyone about it, but every night for the last two weeks, he's had the same dream. He sees the sun setting on a river, all warm colors in the sky, like the inside of a perfect summer peach. He sees ripples in the water, reflection of trees or clouds or mountains. Dark shapes floating there on the surface. Then somehow, his vision reaches the end of the river, where the sun's half-sunk. And he sees House, standing there in the light, turning back just enough to look at him. And Wilson lies down on the water and floats away, toward that sunset. Toward him.
He picked the cat out of the pet store because its orange fur is a color out of his dream, the yellow eyes like the slivers of reflected sun on the river. He doesn't know what the dream means, but every morning, he wakes up from it and looks at House, sleeping next to him.
This was never the way Wilson pictured his life going. But he watches House sleep and feels so much love, squeezed into those brief and silent moments—a love that can never be totally eclipsed by any of the frustration House will bring him throughout the day. He knows he doesn't have to do this: live with his best friend, share the same bed, the dishes and the closet and the drawers. He knows it isn't typical. But for the first time in his adult life, he's found a sense of home that isn't shrouded in transience. That feeling he spent decades looking for—of having an entire world all to himself and the person he belongs with—has finally come.
That's why he got the cat. But he doesn't know how he could begin to explain that to House. So he doesn't.
House spends all day trying to figure out what Wilson meant by calling him a cat person. He has a vending machine snack and soda for lunch and lies on his office floor, listening to music and analyzing the statement. Wilson doesn't come looking for him. The patient gets better, gets worse, gets better. Still no right diagnosis.
Then, somewhere between his patient coding and the end of his work day, House realizes: cats are born loners. They can be socialized to accept the company of other cats, sometimes even dogs, but they are designed to live alone. They prefer it that way. This is why a cat is the antithesis of Wilson. Dogs get lonely. Cats roam the world looking out for themselves. And perhaps that is one cause for the eternal hostility between cats and dogs. Maybe cats can't respect dogs for being so needy. And maybe dogs, as friendly as they are, resent cats for being so cold, so aloof.
House's blue eyes glow with this conclusion, and he goes home with a strange feeling in his chest.
It's Friday night, so they order Indian take-out, and Wilson makes dessert. House is quiet, enough that Wilson notices but doesn't say anything. They watch television and eat on the couch. House tries to formulate his approach to the subject of Wilson moving out, and Wilson can tell by House's third beer that something's wrong.
The whole time, House thinks: I should've known. I should've known he never actually planned on staying. Maybe he still resents me for Amber. Maybe he's never actually forgiven me for it. Who would want to live with me anyway? Stacy didn't. I just wish he would've told me right away instead of getting that stupid cat.
The raspberry sorbet is nothing but a few watery, pink drops at the bottom of Wilson's bowl, and he can't stand it.
"Okay," he says. "What's up?"
House looks over at him, hunched with his elbows on his knees, picking at his sorbet.
"What?"
"Something's going on in that head of yours. Is this about the cat? Are you still obsessing?"
"No."
"Well, what is it, then? Neither one of us will get any sleep tonight unless we talk about it."
House scrapes the last of his sorbet out of the bowl, then drops the spoon in with a clang. He sits back in the couch and stares straight ahead at the TV.
"When are you planning on moving out?" he says.
Wilson blinks at him, feels his heart crumple a little. He looks away from House, at the TV.
"You want me to move out?" he says.
"If you want to go, you should go." House stands and limps around the back of the couch and into the kitchen. "Probably for the best anyway."
"What is that supposed to mean?" says Wilson.
"What do you think it means? Do I really have to spell it out for you? I get it. This was just another transition thing; you needed some time to grieve your dead girlfriend's apartment. I guess you can stay here until you find a new one, but really, why waste any more of your time?"
"House, what are you talking about?"
House steps forward and stops beneath the kitchen archway, leaning on his cane and facing Wilson.
"You don't want to live here. There's no point in you living here. And you never actually meant to stay because that's not what middle-aged guys like us do. You can't take every woman you screw to a hotel for the rest of your life. So just do us both a favor and go now instead of later."
Wilson looks at him and speaks with his hands now, voice steady.
"House," he says. "Don't tell me what I want. Okay? You don't know. I have no idea where this is coming from, but I don't think any of that."
House retreats to the refrigerator and grabs another beer. Wilson watches him pop it open and wash down two of his oxycodone pills.
"Instead of wasting money on a cat for the lame symbolic message, you could've just told me."
"Oh, my God," says Wilson. "This is still about the cat."
House leaves the kitchen and heads for the bathroom. Wilson gets up and follows him, stopping in the hall. House sets his beer down hard on the sink and looks at himself in the mirror, his back to Wilson.
"House, forget about the damn cat, okay? It doesn't mean anything."
"It's fine," says House. "I should've known. This didn't work before, so why would it work now?"
It doesn't matter how much I love you.
He turns on the sink and washes his face, then turns it off and leans with both hands on the sink sides, shoulders hunched. Wilson is silent for a while, hands on his hips, and House doesn't move from his position. Now, he's tired—muscle tired, bone tired, heavy-hearted.
"Do you want it to work?" says Wilson, softly. House turns around.
"What?" he says.
Wilson looks at him with those stupid puppy eyes.
"I said, do you want it to work?"
They stand across from each other, eyes together, and Wilson feels like he's in his dream again. House in the light, down river. House looks at him, anger dissipated, and he nods.
"Okay," Wilson says. "Then, shut up and believe me when I say: so do I."
Because I love you too.
He goes back into the living room and shuts off the television, before heading into the bedroom, and House stands still in the bathroom for a little bit. Until he hears Wilson's whisper from the dark.
"House. Get in here."
House limps down the hall to the bedroom and finds Wilson standing just inside the door.
"Look," he says. House squints in the dark, standing behind Wilson. He can't see much; then Wilson reaches for the wall behind them and flips on a light.
Hitchcock the cat is stretched across the middle of the bed—with Steve McQueen resting against his belly. They lie there together in silence, the cat looking at House and Wilson with its yellow eyes.
"How did Steve get out of his cage?" House says.
"I let him out," says Wilson, a dopey grin on his face. The men stare at the animals, and House doesn't smile.
"There's a rat in my bed," he says.
"He's your rat," says Wilson.
House throws the animals out of the bedroom, and if he falls asleep with Wilson's arm around him or his hand resting on Wilson's waist, neither one of them will say anything about it.
House sleeps through the night with his head toward Wilson and doesn't dream.
Wilson dreams of the river. He sees House floating this time, smile upturned to the setting sun, and Wilson floats besides him.