t was Christmas; therefore he was once again doing the annual, dodge around stupid spiky things in lobbies, gauntlet. It was complete shit that this celebration had to come every year. Why couldn't it be bi-annual, or like the Olympics, February 29th that extra day, everyone could pretend it's the extra special opportunity, the day that's theirs to use because it doesn't really exist, and do annoying things like be nice to people they usually hate because its perceived as right, and then the next day go back to being the humans they all pretend not to be.
It was late, and outside was a mystery to him, his windows fogged from the insane heating going on. He wonders how much extra money goes towards heating and cooling because the last dean decided light was the cure to all illness and discontent. He looks for snow, he thinks he can see a few flakes drifting past the windows, but it could just as easily be a meteor shower, or lights of planes that ferry loved ones across the high atmospheres, blinking in that pattern he used to try and tap out on his leg lying on the grass at night, a diversion from the long hours ahead full of cold and boredom.
He hears the invisible barrier to his office push open, pushing against the new carpet, the extra layer creating a thickness one had to fight against to open the door, but he recognised the foot falls and the feeling in the room
"Wilson" he spins in his chair, watching as his friend sinks into the seat right in front of him
"How's the patient doing?" Wilson always started conversations with these misnomers, and sure enough a few moments later
"Christmas eve" he murmurs, "Date with Cuddy tonight?"
House only gives a brief nod because Wilson knows he's going on a date, and he looks at the wall the colours glowing in the lamp light
"Decide what you're going to do?" Wilson yawns quietly as House leers
"Other than the hot hot sex?" Wilson rolls his eyes, "I got reservations at Oscar Deliedoe."
He can feel those eyes contemplating him
"Nice choice."
"Figure a bit of music to fill in the awkward silences never did any harm." Wilson nods, his eyes straying back to his hands in his lap
"What are you doing?" he shoots at Wilson, who contemplates his thumbs
"Oh you know, watch a movie, drink some wine…should call mum…"he's trailed off and talking to himself by the end, thumbs stilled and eyes staring at nothing before he yawns again and stands up, grabbing his briefcase, he doesn't turn around but pauses, House can see his right eye as he turns his head a little to murmur over his shoulder
"House, try to have fun?"
"That, Wilson, would be a true Christmas miracle"
Wilson wanders out into the hallway, and the light's glaring on his skin. His feet don't make a sound on the linoleum as he walks away, and he knows because Wilson's left the door open, which in a moment Cuddy's snuck through
"House," she stands in the middle of the room, fingers laced placed across her stomach, "Um, you had plans?"
She sounds so uncharacteristically unsure that he almost takes pity
"I booked us the honeymoon suit at the Hilton." she goes blank for a moment before he tells her to relax and that's he's going to show her the highest high of her life, she just rolls her eyes and ignores his leering, eventually getting the truth
"Okay so see you at seven thirty then." she wanders out of the room and pulls the door shut behind her. But even then he can hear her clip-clopping down the hallway like a horse, and watches as everyone who wanders past squeaks or taps against the floor but not Wilson.
It isn't snowing and the roads are clear, he turns up at Oscar's early, trying to get a dark back corner so all the people in the cavern are positioned in front of him. He grabs a drink and thinks he sees a familiar mess of hair in the crowds but then it's gone. Cuddy turns up ten minutes later
"Of course you'd be in the darkest, dankest corner."
"I can't abandon my shtick now"
Cuddy laughs at him; her eyes are bright in the lights
"Yeah, because you've done so well out of it what with a job and a friend and, oh no, wait, that's it"
House doesn't mind the jibe for some reason and smiles, "As opposed to you who has a job and oh no, wait, that's it."
"At least people like me"
"Wilson likes me"
"I mean non-screwed up people"
"You judge us, but at least me and Jimmy were both born with the gender we wanted"
Cuddy rolls her eyes, and gets up to order a drink from the bar, balancing her weight on one leg the other leg posed at sharp angles, like the dancers in a jazz number. Her manicured fingernails are resting on the dirty counter top, the black dress sticks smoothly against her, and the opaque stockings shimmer in the soft light. She's the hottest woman in this joint, so she must be screwed up. And suddenly he swears he sees those eyes in the corner of his eye, at a table, walking past to go to the men's but he looks around and Wilson most certainly isn't here or there or anywhere.
"Hey," Cuddy's looking at him and he realises he was staring at his hands, just like Wilson was doing earlier. He wonders if Wilson was thinking the same things, too. Wondering where Wilson was. "You alright?"
"Sorry," he looks up at her bizarre greeny blue eyes, "Just got lost in the expanse of your ass"
She's got him a drink, too.
"Though God knows you shouldn't have any alcohol as well as Vicodin…"
"Oh, thanks for reminding me" she looks away over the crowd, as House proceeds to then pop a Vicodin and grins at her, swallowing as loudly as he can, her eyes returning to him
"To your liver" she toasts, sipping what looks like almost water but is indeed upon gulp, a wine.
"Hey! Drink your own" she scolds, he smiles innocently. Suddenly the lights dim, a temporary hush in conversation before everyone starts up again but turned down, a radio on low, like bees buzzing in a hot summer garden, and the small band files on stage. Cuddy's ordering a meal "Grilled chicken, salad, dressing on the side" and he points to something that has pie and chips in its description, absorbed by the shadows covering the musicians, the bizarre lighting making it deep black holes where their eyes should be. Drums played by an Elvis Costello look alike, piano manned by a tall woman, her skin pale, a little spotty, ratty, and so is her hair, but she's the most beautiful thing in the world because her fingers move across the keys like silk across skin, the guitarist is a surly bloke, but the singer, a cellist, has a deep magical New Orleans voice and House wonders where the hell what's-his-face ended up.
And there he is again, standing in the doorway. Wilson's looking at him before someone walks past his vision, a shadow and a blink of an eye he's gone.
He's really un-nerved now, but Cuddy's watching the music, actually enjoying it, and he stares at the singer, underneath his mind is talking talking
He's not actually here, even he couldn't perform a vanishing act, is he a ghost? Is he dead, now? He was yawning, maybe he fell asleep behind the wheel? Come on moron, if Wilson's dead, Wilson's dead, he's not gonna hang around just to creep you out…actually, no that sounds like something he would do. Shut up. So, did Wilson follow you here? No you would've recognised him. You know him, he's not a super sleuth.
Their meals arrive, Cuddy gets another drink and this time, she toasts to his heart as House begins to stuff chips in his mouth but he's staring at the doorway, wondering if Wilson's just lurking out there in the cold.
Do you know him?
And he looks at Cuddy in the lamp light, her skin is dewy, she's got a small smudge of black under her lashes, mascara from when she rubbed her eyes, the smoke starting to form a thick fog. The singer sings about life being a hard, and about love being a bitch, and House picks up a part of the ornament he's destroyed and he slips his fingers into Cuddy's coat pocket before telling her he has to go.
House opens the door with his stolen card and his heart leaps a little in his chest as he paces over to the bed. But Wilson's just asleep on his stomach, one arm under his pillow the other hanging off the bed, frowning slightly. He lowers himself onto the edge of the bed, giving his heart some time to settle in, he surveys what he can see. The bedside lamp's still on, an empty wine glass stained with red is standing next to it, the TV is playing the black and white "It's a wonderful life" almost on mute. There's a bottle of pills on the bedside, almost full. He scans the label Rozerem
Sleeping pills.
He stares at Wilson in the lamp light
"Hey" he shakes Wilson, "Hey!" but he just grunts and doesn't wake. He grabs the handle of the bedside draw, he can hear more rattling of pills in a bottle inside, a cavernous echoing around the draw. The sandpaper sound as he pulls the draw open, hollow rolling as the bottle is flung back into the draw, coming to rest against the pristine leather cover of the hotel bible that's never been touched. The bottle's lying label side down, with thumb and forefinger, carefully, feeling a deep hostility towards the round cylinder, he picks it up. The label shines with its name Lexapro and he thumbs the cap off, looking at the small white round tablets. It's mostly full too, just like the sleeping pills, prescribed by a Dr. R. Rosenstein dated recently, and he wonders why the hell Wilson's gone to see this moron, where the hell this jerk works. Wonder's if he thinks he knows Wilson at all.
The window shows a bluish lit world, clouds sliding away to show a moon that's had a sliver taken off it, illuminating the world with its non symmetrical shape. Stupid really, why the world's moon's still just a noun, why something so involved, essential to the rhythm of life has never been given a name, whilst people dedicate their lives to the search of distant moon's and stars that will have no bearing on our lives ever, and deign to name them after Gods.
He turns the lamp light off and walks round the edge of the bed and levers himself onto the other half of the bed. He turns the movie up, it's almost over and he wonders how far into it Wilson got before he took his little pill with his little bit of wine to knock himself out just a little bit.
George, I've got a little paper here-
I'll bet it's a warrant for my arrest. Isn't it wonderful? I'm
going to jail. Merry Christmas!
George is grabbing onto his wife, House's eyelids slide down half way, he can only really notice the glare off his eyelashes now
Mary! Let me touch you. Let me touch you. Oh, you're real!
People are rushing into George's living room. He looks over at Wilson and shakes him again, but he's deep under a sluggish spell
Isn't it wonderful? So many faces! Mary did it, George! Mary did
it! She told some people you were in trouble and then, they
scattered all over town collecting money. They didn't ask any
questions
House watches for a bit longer, but as George is told no man is a failure who has friends he has to turn it off. The TV seems to shimmer blue for a while, sharp cracklings of static, and he sheds his shoes and his belt before shifting in under the covers. He stares at Wilson's undulating contour in the moonlight, like the crest of a hill, his white shirt is gleaming and his white skin looks dusty. He reaches over, fingers hesitating over Wilson's curved shoulder before throwing caution to the wind and bringing his hand down to help himself shuffle over.
He's not touching him but he's so close he can see the pale blonde hairs that coat Wilson's body, even in the dark. He can smell Wilson's cologne, it lingers on his skin, it smells better like this than it does out of the bottle, mixing in with Wilson's day coffee, pheromones, sweat, snow, his dark hair is ruffled Wilson running his hands over and through it as he hesitantly places his palm against Wilson's neck. They don't touch each other often, and sometimes he forgets Wilson's human like this, that under the delicate skin stretched over his neck his heart beats, House curls his fingers resting his knuckles against the carotid; the blood thrumming through his body makes Wilson seem more alive than he has for a while. It's something he associates with Stacy, even Cuddy, hot blooded life that pumps through their veins; Wilson has always been detached real but never so human. Never so vulnerable.
Wilson's alive, House thinks as he twists his fingers into the luminescent shirt, the cotton warm and the skin underneath radiating heat, House slumps and curls his body into sleep, his nose a hairs breadth from nape of Wilson's neck, House's breath is recycling a little, sucking in heavy warm air, whilst Wilson's breath is deathly quiet, the small rising of his chest the only sign he's breathing. It's a character trait that he's always informed Wilson is a character flaw, to which Wilson used to smile at him
"What?!"
Wilson's wives may have enjoyed being able to sleep nestled inside some arms that don't snore and grunt, but for House, in the depths of night waking in a loaded silence, it was tiring. Not knowing if Wilson's still there, still alive, still breathing or if under the sounds of the fridge humming, he's slipped away. Sometimes he checks. Because he never knows till he can see him.
A clock somewhere in the room ticks, and House whispers
"Merry Christmas, Wilson."
Cuddy arrives home, it had been going well. She's not upset because she'd never expected more than disappointment, but as she puts her coat into the closet the hip pocket opens out, like a spout pouring and she reaches in delicately, feeling spikes and suddenly worrying about what House might have left her.
The mistletoe is shiny and green, there are no berries but it's perfect anyway, because that's just House all over.
"Merry Christmas, House."