"You gonna leap across the room and rip the pills out of my hand, flush them down the toilet or something," I ask, looking up into the doorway, amazed that anyone was here, let alone the person I was seeing
"No," the voice replies being more kind than it has been in months. "It's your decision whether you go back on drugs or not. I won't try and stop you." Why should I stop? Nothing I can do could possibly make you love me any less.
"I'm not really seeing the down side then," I snarkily reply. I am going to take the pills. There is nothing in the world that can be done to stop me from making myself feel better. Not after today. Not after what Wilson had done, and Cuddy had done. Will I be able to show restraint and not go back to popping a pill ever five minutes? I'm not sure but I don't care. "It's all up from here," I add, bringing my hand to my mouth, and pretending to swallow. I then pull the pill out of my ear, stuff it up my nose and coughed it out my mouth, and make it disappear and reappear. There is no sign of amusement on my friend's face. "You here to yell at me or something?" He shakes his head. "Oh crap," I mutter. "You married her again? Already?"
"No, but that is what we need to talk about. Sam, I mean. Not marriage. I am nowhere near ready to be getting married. To anybody." Good, I think. At least you haven't lost all your common sense.
"I don't need to hear the details," I groan, looking down at the pills in my hand for the seventeenth time in five minutes. I haven't taken anything yet. So, even though I am terrified to think this might be a figment of my imagination, I know it was extremely unlikely. Wilson makes his way into the bathroom and sits beside me. "I will not help you cheat on another girlfriend, fiancé, wife, lover or whatever else you might think of calling it," I explain.
"Yeah, about that…" Jimmy drapes his arm across my shoulder. "I um…I broke up with her. About an hour ago." I stare at him pathetically. "I want to move forward with my life. I want to be healthy and normal, and I want not to love you but I can't seem to do any of those things."
"I want all that stuff too, except for the not being with you part." I start to add "maybe" and then chicken out. Wilson will never see us as anything more than friends with benefits, I realize. I thought we might be a real couple when he bought the loft and again when he got me the organ, but then all of the sudden he was with Sam and I was alone. As usual. "Do you think I can fix myself?"
"I don't know," he says, squeezing me softly between his arms. You just like that I'm a perpetual fixer-upper.
"…Because I'm the most screwed up person in the world." He hates it when I do stuff like that but there is more truth than self-pity in my statement and we both know it. He lays his hand on my thigh, rubs it lightly. "Don't," I whimper. It huts even worse now.
"Sorry, and I know. I love you. I wish I didn't," he admits, that guilty look crawling out from it's hiding place behind his eyes. I don't want to be your fucking charity case. Yeah right, even I don't believe that. Truth is, I will do anything that got me a night in Wilson's bed, with his arms around me, the beating of his heart singing me to sleep. "But I can't." He turns his head, leans in and kisses me.
"How do I know I'm not hallucinating again?" Jimmy sighs, pulling the pill bottle out of my hand. Then, he pries my fingers open to show the two I shook out from the bottle a few minutes—hours? Day? Years? I can't tell it feels like we've been on the floor together for all eternity—ago. I haven't taken anything yet. Of course, a year ago I convinced myself I had sex with Cuddy and went through detox in my apartment, when in fact all I did was sit there and pop pills. I was been sitting in this exact spot come to think of it.
"Come back to the loft with me. We'll have a soak in the tub. Together. Then, I'll give you a massage, make you something to eat, and we'll talk about what happened. If you still need these by the time we go to bed, I'll give you two pills. You need to learn moderation anyway."
"So, you're telling me that you love me and you're going to take me back and you're going to give me drugs—some of the time—and you expect me to believe that this isn't a fantasy?" His fingers dance along my hairline.
"God damn it, House; stand up! You are coming home with me and we are going to make everything work out. I don't care if you go to therapy or not, I don't care about that. I don't care about the Vicodin. You are what I want. You, and me; maybe we can even have a chance to get married and be happy together one day."
"If this isn't real I'm gonna kill myself," I mutter, trying to ignore the waves of agony crashing in his eyes. "Sorry," I try to whisper but Jimmy clamps his hand over my mouth, and manages to fake a smile.
"If this isn't real, you have my permission to kill yourself. Of course, if I amjust a hallucination, then I'm not really the real Wilson and you don't have my permission to take the pills I said I might give you later."
"You just wanna get me stoned so I'll agree to cuddle," I reply quickly. This time the smile actually is a real one. I stand slowly, leaning against him, and together we head out to the car. "If you are a hallucination, then you should have a cooler car."
"What are you talking about? Volvos are off the hook. Okay, that sounded a lot less stupid in my head. Let's just pretend I didn't say it." I tell him it was too late, and sit watching him as we head back to the loft. "Get out of the car. We're home."
"Home," I repeat, my voice tiny quiet, and a little bit shaky. I can't stop wondering how long it will be before I get pushed aside again,even though I want more than anything to trust him.
"This is your home Greg. Our home. It's just going to take a little while for you to get used to." I nod and follow him inside, smiling. "And I got a way to help you feel more like you belong here. You are paying for half the rent, utilities, groceries, and everything else from now on."
I think about laughing and telling him, "like that's ever gonna happen," but for some reason, I also think he is right. I never felt like I belonged at Amber's place because it had belonged to a woman I once called Cutthroat Bitch. When we moved in here, I thought I'd found a place to call home for the first time that I could remember but something still felt wrong. Wilson is right. If I want to belong, if I want to be his boyfriend or his husband or whatever, I have to do my share of the work. So I agree but also tell him, "The only chore I'm doing is sucking you off. And I'm only doing that when I feel like it."
Wilson giggles, drags me towards the tub, and says, "Fine, I'll just get my assistant to do it when you won't."