Caught, a house, m.d. fanfic

Title: Caught

Author: pgrabia

Characters/Pairing: G. House, J. Wilson; House/Wilson Friendship-UST

Genre: Angst/friendship

Spoiler Alert: All seasons including all of season 7 and up to episode 8x8: Perils of Paranoia. You've been warned.

Rating/Warnings: PG/T for serious subject matter and innuendo.

A/N: A post-episode fic, because I was not satisfied by the way House's and Wilson's pranking ended.

Caught

"Ah-ha! I knew it. Admit it."

House spun around to see Wilson standing behind him. The oncologist had quietly let himself into House's apartment and had watched him look at the military arms he'd inherited from John. Even though Wilson could have been cocky about it, he wasn't. Instead he was quiet, contemplative, his hands folding in front of him. There was softness and affection in his chocolate brown eyes.

House sighed, realizing that he'd been caught.

"You win. Why aren't you doing your nerdy victory dance?"

"Doesn't seem appropriate," Wilson replied, walking up to him. He gestured with his chin at the weapons. "John's?"

House nodded somberly. "Yeah. Mom insisted I take them because dear ol' Dad wanted me to have them."

"Hidden in plain sight," Wilson said approvingly. "Nice."

"I thought so." House headed for his kitchen and Wilson followed him. "Stay for a beer?"

"Why not?" Wilson took off his overcoat and hung it up before meeting House at the sofa, taking the sweating bottle with a nod of thanks. He sat in his normal spot on the sofa next to Wilson. He took a pull off the bottle, enjoying the cold liquid as it flowed down his throat.

"Why were you so certain I had a gun?" House asked Wilson, looking sideways at him. The apartment was unusually quiet; he hadn't turned on the TV the moment he sat down like he usually did. The quiet felt good, right.

"Like I said," Wilson replied with a shrug, "you like dangerous things."

House squinted at his friend suspiciously. "That's not it. You would have brought up the gun issue long ago if that was the case. You think that since I'm a convicted felon I've taken up wielding deadly weapons for kicks."

Wilson said nothing, choosing to look away from him and drink his beer. His non-response was like a sharp slap to the face for House.

"So, what? I drove my car into my ex-girlfriend's house and that makes me a homicidal killer?" House asked him sharply. "I'm only going to tell you this one more time: I had no intention of hurting Cuddy or anyone else in that house that day and especially not you. I saw them leave the dining room so that's why I aimed my car there instead of at the living room where I saw them go. I realize now that I had no way of knowing that they hadn't gone back into the dining room for something and that what I did was reckless and stupid, yadda, yadda. If you really believe my intent was to kill her, why have you been pleading my case with Foreman to keep me from being sent back to prison? Why are you here now, drinking a beer with me on my sofa? Aren't you afraid I might try to kill you for winning our little bet after all?"

Wilson sighed out loud, setting his bottle down onto the table with a little more force than was necessary before rising to his feet and heading for where he'd hung his overcoat.

"That's it? No response? No lecture?" House called after him, slamming his bottle down as well and limping after him without his cane. "You've written me off that easily?"

Wilson, who had been shrugging on his coat, stopped and turned on him. House was expecting a look of anger from him but instead was surprised to see hurt.

"I don't know what to think anymore," he told House quietly. "I've known you for twenty years but I discovered that day that I've never really known you. You frightened me, House. Up until that point I was convinced that aside for the odd punch in extreme circumstances you were incapable of that level of violence and hatred. I would have staked my life on it. Then in a matter of seconds you destroyed every confidence I had in you. To top it off, you ran away like a coward instead of facing the consequences of what you did and you didn't even bother to drop me a line to let me know that you weren't dead somewhere from an overdose or hidden injury from the crash. Do you have any idea what that did to me? Do you even care?"

House didn't respond right away. He really hadn't thought about the fact that Wilson would have been impacted so strongly by the crash nor from not receiving word from him for those three months he was out of the country. To be honest, House had been flying high from Vicodin and booze nearly the entire time and it hadn't been until he finally came down that he thought of anything other than staying stoned and enjoying local prostitutes. He had no idea what to say to Wilson.

When Wilson didn't get a reply from him he shook his head in disappointment and disgust and went to the door. As soon as his hand touched the doorknob, House's voice stopped him.

"I did face the consequences. I came back, didn't I? The cops were waiting for me at the airport when my plane landed, weren't they? I didn't even try to lawyer up or defend my actions and I went to prison and did time."

Wilson let go of the doorknob and pivoted to face him. "Why did you come back? Was it because you finally were struck with guilt for what you'd done? Or was it really because you were running out of cash and drugs?"

"I came back because I sobered up and realized that I had hurt you and I couldn't live with myself for having done that," House insisted, hoping that Wilson would believe him because this time he was actually telling the truth. "I knew that the only way I'd ever have a chance of seeing you again and having a chance to apologize was to come home and face the music. I'd hoped that once I was eventually released from prison I could track you down because…because I missed you."

This time it was Wilson's turn to be struck dumb. House took the opportunity to tell him something he should have said the moment he saw Wilson again after being sprung by Foreman.

"I'm sorry." It was whispered, House's eyes looking furtively at Wilson, anticipating a negative response; perhaps bitterness or skepticism.

Wilson exhaled his posture relaxing. "I never thought I'd hear you say that."

A tiny smile tugged at the corners of House's mouth. "Neither did I." He sighed. "Stay. Finish your beer. Maybe if you're a good boy I'll show you my gun."

Wilson removed his overcoat, hanging it again. "I'm not interested in looking at a weapon, House. You know that."

House turned around so that Wilson wouldn't see the smile that broke out on his face. He limped back toward the sofa.

"Who said anything about a weapon?"

~fin~