A/N: This wasn't really written with a slashy undertone in mind, but it looks like that's what happened. I don't really mind. Hope you don't, either. Critique appreciated, since I don't have a beta.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Wilson presses his forehead, warm and moist, into his hands. The air is thick with sick and tension, this horrible, guilty feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. His phone rings again, on the coffee table in front of him, and he stares at it for a long moment. He almost finds himself answering it. Almost.
He's so tired.
The phone ceases to move, and he hangs his head, sighing. It shouldn't be this hard, he thinks to himself. He brushes his hair off his forehead and rolls his sleeve up, his hands lost without an idle task, glancing at his wristwatch. He's been avoiding House's calls for nearly two hours now. The phone rings, again, clattering around on the table loudly. His fingers twitch.
This isn't a sudden decision, he sadly realizes; it's something that has been in the back of his mind for ages—maybe since before the infraction. He can't remember anymore. With House, days and hours and minutes and years just seem to blend together into one depressing, staggering thing he sometimes guiltily hopes isn't what people call forever.
"No," he tells himself, speaking clearly, strongly. "Don't give in. Don't pick up. You can do this." He inhales deeply. "Just don't. pick. up."
He will not write another prescription. He will not loan him a single dollar. He will not lie, steal, or cheat for him any longer.
When he is finished ignoring the call, he wanders into the kitchen, thinking a drink might help calm him. On his way back to the couch, his beeper suddenly sounds. Cursing, he nearly throws it across the room; he doesn't even have to look at it. Instead, he settles for tossing it near the coat rack, wincing as the hard plastic hits the floor and slides into the wall.
"Damn it."
He's had endless time to make his mind up, weighing the pros and the cons, talking himself in circles on sleepless nights; nights that guarantee tomorrow will be the same. He won't ever forget those long, hard looks House gave him, with cold, dazed eyes; always probing, always searching for something—anything to grab onto, just to keep him sane for just another week, another day, another second. Sinking back into the couch, he smiles sadly to himself, a tiny voice in the back of his head telling him he's done it this time, it's over, that he's sticking to his guns. Finally standing up for himself. He nearly laughs, tears stinging at his eyes, when someone knocks on his door. The smile is gone and his mouth opens slightly, as if to form a word that won't come, and he gapes at the door in panic, hoping, praying, that House isn't on the other side.
"Wilson," a raspy voice croaks. "Open the door."
It comes as a surprise to him that he nearly does go to open the door. It takes every ounce of strength he has to stay seated, until he hears:
"Please."
Something in that voice, something quiet and childlike, brings Wilson to the edge of the sofa. He begins to shake his head, not believing what he's about to do. The walk to the door is slow and thoughtful, in case he changes his mind.
What are you doing? His inner self screams.
He's in pain, he rationalizes with himself, realizing with a start that House is always in pain.
Knowing he'll regret it, he holds his breath and quickly opens the door. They stare at each other for a long moment, Wilson noticing his pale, clammy skin, his sweat-soaked hair and the dark red circles around his eyes. It hurts just as much as it did the last time.
House blinks several times, leaning heavily on his cane, his breathing labored. He swallows. His eyes are wild, pleading, almost.
House looks at him with a resolute expression that unnerves him, makes the skin on the back of his neck stand up. He swallows thickly and again considers shutting the door, when Houses' eyes leave his, and he bows his head, reaching a shaky hand into his pocket. He produces an orange pill bottle, slowly holding his hand out, his cheeks sucked in shamefully. Or perhaps he's biting on them to keep from screaming. Wilson can't tell.
Both are silent for what seems like a lifetime, neither one ever really making eye contact, only sneaking glances when he thinks the other isn't looking. This is awkward and strained and so fucking typical.
Wilson looks down to the floor, his eyes catching sight of Houses' trembling hand.
He can't do this.
Heart thumping in his chest, Wilson suddenly realizes he needs this, whether or not he wants it.
Because sometimes, he could stand to lighten up a little, and maybe people aren't as good as he likes to think they are. Maybe he needs Houses' bitterness and distrust, in some strange, sad way. Maybe they need each other. Maybe, for some people, being okay just isn't an option. The smell of sweat and vomit invades his nostrils and makes his stomach churn, but it's something he can control. Under Houses' withering glare, all the determination drains from his body, replaced with a fluttering in his chest. He inspects the pill bottle, rolling it between his fingers, and sighs.
He's done this before. Maybe this time is a little different from last time, but the thing that never changes is that look, the one that makes his heart beat faster and slower at the same time.
"Can I come in?" House asks. He wets his lips, avoiding eye contact. He shifts his weight with a grunt and steadies his cane, now supporting himself by leaning into the doorframe.
"House..." Wilson says slowly, his eyes never leaving the pill bottle. He finally catches House's eye and shakes his head again, as if he can't believe what he's gotten himself into. But that's just it. He knew this would happen. It always happens. It's always going to happen, and not just because House is a lonely, bitter, manipulative bastard, but because there's something there. Something Wilson can't see under a microscope or look up in a book, but knows is real.
Tomorrow, things will pick up where they left off. House will awkwardly tell him thank you, and they will both go their separate ways until work, where caseloads will keep them apart all day, and maybe, if Wilson just happens to leave his office at the right time, he'll catch a glimpse of a wooden cane near the pharmacy.
He'll go see Cuddy and bite his hand, pace around her office, and everything will be the same as it always was.
His hand tightens around the door handle and he pulls it open more. He gestures for House to come in, the tight knot in his shoulders relaxing. He doesn't have to say a word. House nods curtly, expectantly, Wilson's hand on his back gently guiding him in.
He'll drive home tomorrow evening and lie awake for hours, knowing that this only guarantees tomorrow will be the same. And for another long while, he'll be okay with that, because that's just how things are.
They need this. They've always needed this.