Post season three, episode seven – "Son of Coma Guy."
From Wikipedia: In the final scene, while House and Wilson talk, Wilson tries to withdraw money from his ATM and learns that his account has been frozen as a part of the ongoing police investigation into House's drug use. House seems ashamed by the trouble he's put Wilson in, but is still confident that the case will not escalate.
Inspired by the following quotes:
"Maybe I don't wanna push this 'til it breaks." – House (when telling Wilson to leave the room)
"You're getting dinner.." – Wilson (after accounts are frozen)
House turns the door knob and shoulders the door open. His backpack hits the floor with a soft thump and he limps off to his bathroom. Wilson follows with an armful of Chinese take-away, mindful to click the door shut behind them and turn the lock. He dumps the warm boxes of food on the coffee table and sets his briefcase by the desk, draping his coat over the back of the chair. He makes his way to the fridge to grab a couple beers and by the time he returns to the sofa, House has taken up his usual spot and begun to riffle through the boxes. As Wilson settles on the couch he wordlessly sets a beer by House before working his own bottle open and taking a generous swig.
House sighs quietly and leaves off messing with the food, leaning back and crossing his arms. "'M sorry," he mutters, chin tucked sheepishly to his chest as he pointedly avoids Wilson's face.
Wilson very nearly sprays beer across the coffee table. "What?" he gasps, so lacking air that it's barely audible.
House clears his throat slightly, "I said I'm sorry.. I didn't mean for this to affect you." He sniffs, clearly uncomfortable with his admission, though he tries to hide it as he reaches for his beer and pries it open for a swallow.
Wilson nods, blinking a few times, his mouth working a moment before he manages, "Thanks." A faint grunt is his only reply as House digs into the first box of take-out he can reach.
They finish their dinner in a mostly comfortable silence, the TV playing on mute in the background. Wilson has already retrieved a second, then a third bottle of beer for each of them. The take-out containers lay in scattered ruins on the coffee table; for once, Wilson didn't feel like tidying up. House, slumped down in one corner of the couch, drains the last of his third beer, head jolting with a hiccup before a drunken burp escapes his scruffy mouth. He was drunk enough to be pleasantly fuzzy in the head and combined with the physical, emotional and mental exhaustion from his previous case – vegetative state guy and his son – it was more than sufficient to render him hopelessly loopy. When he gestures at Wilson for a new beer, his response is a congenial frown.
"You know that was the last of your beers." House looks ready to protest. "Don't blame me; you're the one who hasn't stocked up on booze," he retorts, hands coming up in defense of himself.
House frowns deeply and ponders his predicament a moment before heaving himself forward to set his empty bottle on the table and lunge for Wilson's beer. Triumphant, he whoops and retreats with his prize. Wilson looks irked but not entirely surprised by the entire occurrence; House stole food from him on a daily basis.. so why not alcohol too? He crosses his arms as House downs the last third or so of his pilfered drink, muttering, "Why am I not surprised.. ?" House, engrossed in his drink, replies with a faint sound of questioning.
Wilson frowns, "I said you steal everything else of mine, so why not my beer?"
"I don' steal ev'rything," is the slurred response. House's face grows serious as he fixes Wilson with an intense blue stare.
"What?" Slightly disturbed, his eyes bug out a bit. A hand automatically comes up to wipe at his face and then clamp around the back of his neck.
"Haven' stolen a kiss," he points out with shockingly sober-looking eyes.
"Oookay, I think it's time for you to go to bed." Wilson pulls himself up and retreats to the bathroom. House watches him go.
When Wilson comes out of the bathroom, the lights have been shut off and he assumes that House has withdrawn to his room. He sighs quietly and shuffles to the living room, leaning on the back of the sofa as he works his way out of his shoes.
"I meant it when I said I didn't want to push this until it breaks."
Wilson damn near flies from his skin as he realized House slumped over on the sofa before him. "God House.. Scared the hell out of me," is all he can manage as he fights to control his racing heart. House just nods mutely. Wilson stands there a moment, waiting for something more. After a couple of minutes of silence, he rubs his neck. "Are you sleeping out here? Or are you moving to your room? Cause I'd kinda like to sleep tonight." House shakes his head. "Right."
Wilson gives up and goes to House's room, hesitating a moment before removing his button-down and dress pants, leaving him in his boxers and an undershirt. He pulls the covers back and settles into House's bed, feeling just a little bit strange as he does so. This was a bizarre role reversal. Usually he slept on the couch. He can hear the dull thump of House's characteristic limp out in the living room. His eyes move toward the doorway. The thump progresses down the hall. He holds his breath. The bathroom door clicks shut behind House. He sighs and shakes his head, rolling to make himself comfortable. A few moments later, he hears the door open again and the approaching thun-thump of House's caneless gait. When it goes quiet, he lifts his head to see the outline of House faintly backlit in the doorway. He props himself up on his elbows and raises an eyebrow though he's sure it's not visible in the dark. House hobbles forward and stops beside the bed, gingerly lowering himself to sit on the side opposite Wilson. He shuffles to lie down, settling himself there for a few minutes. Wilson stays quiet, staring at him for a while before letting himself recline once again as he debates getting up.
House suddenly rolls toward Wilson. He rests a tentative hand on his friend's upper arm and looks at him intently. He slowly creeps closer. Wilson watches, bewildered, from the corner of his eye.
"'m I pushin' too much?" House breaths, the stale scent of alcohol and Chinese washing over Wilson's face.
Wilson blinks rapidly as his mouth works silently. What the hell had gotten in to House? Had he taken something? His vocal chords finally catch up, "You okay?"
House gets a weird, wrinkled look on his face, jerks his head in what was supposed to be a nod and abruptly returns to lying supine beside his friend. Wilson's brow furrows and he stares at the ceiling a moment before rolling up on an elbow to look at his strange companion. He holds up a curious finger, mouth open and ready to speak when House glances over at him and rolls on to his side away from him. Well okay then. Wilson lies back down and stares at the ceiling, the gears in his mind clinking sluggishly. In the process of puzzling over his friend, he slips off to sleep. When House hears his soft snore, he rolls over to watch the oncologist for a short while before cautiously shuffling closer. Seeing no sign of his friend waking, he sighs quietly and lets his forehead rest lightly against Wilson's shoulder as he settles on the pillow. He places a faintly clammy hand over the crook of the man's elbow and after a moment surrenders to sleep.
Throughout the night, Wilson subconsciously responds to his best friend's proximity and gradually rolls and worms closer. He treated House like any other warm body beside him, draping an arm over his figure and curling around him.
House is the first to stir, his mind boggled by the warmth surrounding him. His brow scrunches as he tries to figure out who he's lying beside. He can only think of one possibility and surely that couldn't be true. He cracks an eye open to find a pale throat before him. A pale throat with an Adam's apple. He blinks. He can feel his heart rate spiking and he's not sure if it's realizing who's in bed with him or the nausea hitting him from his slight hangover. House swallows and shakily disentangles himself from Wilson so he can make his escape. His leg screams at him for the lack of vicodin but he leaves the pill bottle behind in favour of hop-limping to the bathroom. Between his leg and last night's beers, he could feel his stomach churning in preparation to be sick. The bile is rising up in his throat as he shoves the door shut and some of it manages to spill forth before he can drag himself to the toilet. He heaves and slumps to the ground over the ceramic bowl.
The thumping brings Wilson to who sort of yawns and stretches before falling limp on the bed, waiting to see what woke him up. He catches sight of House's ankle disappearing around the bathroom doorway and the door snapping shut. What a minute.. why was he in House's bed? He frowns. Before he can ponder the situation further, he hears retching. He purses his lips and crawls out of bed. Padding barefoot down the hall, he pauses by the bathroom for a moment before continuing on to the kitchen. He fishes around for a clean glass and fills it with water prior to trekking back to the bathroom. He listens for a second, finds it relatively quiet and taps on the door. He can hear House grunt in response so he twists the door knob and nudges it open. Stepping inside, mindful not to slip in the small drips of sick that hadn't been patient enough to make it to the toilet, he holds the water out for House.
He peers up and accepts the glass with a jolt of his chin, sipping the cool liquid. He crumples back against the side of the bathtub.
"Y'okay?"
House nods and shoos him away.
Wilson starts to back out, then stops. "So, wait.. did you sleep on the couch?" House looks confused but quickly jerks his head in an affirmative motion. Wilson acknowledges his response and heads out back to the bedroom. He squints at the bed. The sheets were crimpled on both sides of the bed. Generally Wilson didn't roll enough to cause this sort of disarray. He kneels on the mattress and puts his hand to the sheets. The middle was still warm while the edges were cooler. The warmer area turns out to be much wider than any one person. His hand finds itself working the back of his neck.
House clumps into the bedroom, his spell of nausea having passed. He makes a beeline for his prescription bottle and dry swallows two vicodin, all without acknowledging that Wilson was even in the room.
"You lied."
House raises a brow at him.
"You slept in here too."
"Dunno what'cher talkin' 'bout," is House's muffled response.
"All of the sheets are messed up and both sides of the bed are warm." House's ears flush and he starts searching around for his cane. It must be out in the living room. Wilson's remembers House's odd behavior and his face suddenly shows his realization. "You.. you did it on purpose?" It was worded as a question, but his inflection failed, making it sound like a statement.
Frustrated by the lack of cane, House turns on him, "Of course I didn't! I was drunk." Face red with what he probably hoped would look like anger, he retreats in search of his near-constant wooden companion.
Wilson remembers how the fading patches of warmth meshed in the center. He gasps, "Wa – ait a minute! We were snuggling!" He meant it as a question but it burst forth as an exclamation; it seemed his brain and vocal chords were not communicating effectively today.
A gruff, "Don't be stupid," sounds from the hall. "We were drunk."
Despite his trepidation, he grins; ruffling House's feathers was one of his favourite past times. "Oh no.. three beers for you does not constitute being drunk."
"Fine. Emotional stress. You're all for that one."
"Okay, now you're just grasping."
House damn near growls as he propels himself forward to snatch up his cane from beside the desk.
Wilson quickly grows serious. "Whatever it is, you can tell me, you know?"
"There's nothing to tell!" House practically throws himself on to the sofa, crossing his arms like a petulant child. He jabs at the TV remote and puts on cartoons, cranking up the volume.
The oncologist's posture softens and he moves to sit beside his stubborn friend. He picks up the remote to turn the volume back down before turning to face House. Reaching out, he lets his hand run along his upper arm, coming to rest over the crook of his elbow. "House.."
His eyes close and he manages to croak, "I can't do this." Blue eyes meet brown for a split second and then House is hauling himself off the couch, gathering his coat and backpack before gimping out the door with his cane, still dressed in yesterday's clothes.
Wilson sits there, frozen, until he hears the roar of the Repsol's engine as his friend races off to, he assumed, the hospital. He shakes his head, digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and then drags himself upright. He dons yesterday's pants, borrows a clean-looking shirt from House's closet, shrugs into his jacket, steps into his shoes, picks up his suitcase and walks out to his Volvo, locking the door behind him, all in a blur of autonomous motion. The next thing he's aware of is pulling into the hospital parking lot. What the hell had he been thinking? He should know better than to try something like that with House by now. House always shied away from anything marginally emotional or sentimental. He growls and slams the car into park. After a moment attempting to regain some semblance of his composure, he abdicates the entire notion and heads inside.
He signs in, accepts a stack of pink message slips and trudges to the elevator. It's not until he's made it to his office that he realizes how empty the halls are. He looks at his watch. 7:36 am. He blinks. How had House managed to make it to work so early? Duh, you scared him out his own apartment, you idiot. He shakes his head and sets his stuff down, shrugs out of his coat and suit jacket, proceeding to roll his sleeves neatly to his elbows. He has a sizable stack of paperwork to catch up on after their little road trip, but has other things nagging at the back of his mind. Wilson steps out and wanders over to House's office. He was probably going to regret this.. He taps on the glass door once and pushes it open. Letting it fall shut behind him, he stands a few feet back from House's desk, his arms crossed. House's body language clearly read 'leave me the hell alone' but of course Wilson was too intrigued to heed the warning. "Why – ?"
"Because you're you!" House cuts him off, his emotion clearly bubbling over.
It gives Wilson a sense of unease. Attempting to swallow it, he answers slowly, "That's… specific."
House heaves a weary sigh and bends over, resting his forehead on the handle of his cane. "You have a track record," he mumbles, half hoping Wilson wouldn't hear and half hoping that he would.
"Track..," Wilson murmurs, rolling the words around in his head until he realizes what House is implying. "House.."
"There's some very consistent evidence on my side," he rumbles quietly, all the fight in him suddenly absent.
"House, I've stuck with you for.. almost twenty years," Wilson reasons softly.
"As a friend. You don't get bored with friendships."
He frowns. "House, you have to have noticed that you're an exception for me… in all areas. I wouldn't put up with half of your crap from anyone else," he tries to joke at the end, but as he figured it would, it falls flat.
House is somber as he replies, "Yeah, I know. That's why I can't risk screwing this up."
Wilson can feel a faint twinge in his chest and his face falls. House must really be serious about this.. Whatever this was. Wilson had yet to figure it out.
The ducklings start to file in and Wilson shifts. He slowly moves to leave. "See you at lunch?" House jerks his head and rotates his chair to face his computer. With a sigh, Wilson returns to his office. Today was going to be a long day.
More to come. Be patient with me.
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