iThere's an angel so close he can taste/i

TITLE: Bitter Warmth

AUTHOR: Danielle

PAIRING: House/Wilson, Foreman/Chase - both unrequited

RATING: PG

WARNINGS: Slash (duh?), angst, rejection, poem-fic

SUMMARY: House knows he's in love. Foreman doesn't want to be. But some things can only be denied by the other side. (Not a good summary!)

DISCLAIMER: The characters? NOT MINE. The poem is mine, actually. But House isn't!

NOTES: Beta-ed by my friend Rachel! Yay!

There's an angel so close he can taste

House doesn't taste the Vicodin, not any more. But there's still a memory of bitterness on his tongue. It touches everything, from coffee to sugar. Flavors fade and it's all just another chore to keep his body working. He has to do what he has to do, needs to live to find the next problem. And, sometimes, he tries to imagine what the food used to taste like. It's ever vivid, always faded behind pain and weathered by a surge of relief. Vicodin messes with that memory, maybe for the best.

But Wilson is salty, sweet and delicious. Not even the pills can change that.

Touch the skin and the warmth so near

The hospital is always kept too warm, though Foreman would never admit that. Time went slower in the warmth, sitting and doing his best not to just drift with the faint heater's breeze. None of the others seemed to notice, ignoring the heat the radiated through the walls. Patients never complained, curled under blankets and moaning it was cold. But Foreman knew it had to be hot, had to be boiling.

There was no other reason to watch Chase. Not even the ones he so desperately made up.

Almost asleep on the molded couch

Wilson had fallen asleep on the couch again. House didn't actually care, but he knew he should have. Julie had his phone number, after all. Two am phone calls weren't often fun, especially since they never brought a mystery to the surface. Everyone, even the patients other doctors treated, knew about Wilson's marriage. So House popped a Vicodin, took a moment to watch Wilson and turned away. The other man's taste was still on the cup he'd sipped, a final gulp of beer laced with some unmistakable.

The other doctor didn't need to know he tasted like strawberries and cream.

So used to loving touches, lonely nights

Foreman was too tired to remember her name when he lay in the empty bed, imagining dark skin and a sudden flash of blonde hair that he can't seem to shake. It should have rolled off his tongue. She was gone for a week and all he'd tried to do was miss her. That failing, he didn't want to think about Chase. He kept his apartment cold to prevent that, to keep him focused. But even textbooks failed after clinic hours, after cases of diseases he had to struggle to keep straight.

Chase didn't need to know that Foreman lay awake thinking about him.

Working into darkness as pain recedes

House rarely worked late, doing his level best to avoid that. Even if it, occasionally, meant missing his soaps. But when Wilson left for an attempt at a second (third, fourth? Too many to count, too much effort and nothing in return) honeymoon, he stayed in his office until the sun rose again. Pill after pill, bitter tastes washed away without a moment's thought. There was no reason to sleep as the volume on his iPod crept up.

But when Wilson came back, he made sure to insinuate everything that could have gone wrong. Especially when it had.

Echoing piano notes spin and weave

Foreman can't really play an instrument. He used to try, sometimes. All the other med students said it was relaxing, a great idea. But he never got the hang of it. Music just wasn't his thing. But more and more he finds himself listening to piano solos and classical music that thrums through buildings and walls and echoes in his tiny apartment. He can't decide why it reminds him of Chase.

But there's something old about the other man, old and knowing sometimes. But when he's being a prick, Foreman just turns the music in his head up louder and talks to Cameron.

This tapestry that is unknown, hidden

Wilson starts leaving a blanket in House's place a month before the divorce begins. Both doctors know what that means. It happens every time, a pillow and a blanket settling onto the couch. No one else notices, the accessories hidden beneath House's typical book and paper mess. But they both know it's there, they both know why. And no one talks when Wilson climbs into House's car the night after the papers are signed.

That night he tells Wilson what he tastes like. And the other doctor laughs it off, claiming House is oranges dipped in vanilla. With a smile and a snip, their lives begin to unravel.

Beneath the paperwork and little quips

When Cameron tells him to talk to Chase, it's all Foreman can do to keep from laughing in her face. They both know the little blonde brown-noser would give him the look and then never talk again. But her eyes are pleading and look like her heart might break if he doesn't. So he nods, decides not to, and walks away. But there are no new cases and the only entertainment seems to be Chase's crossword puzzles.

Foreman gives him the wrong answers. They look at each other, eyes meeting across a partially darkened room. It's all clear, proposal and rejection silently communicated, an understanding reached before it even begins.

There's nothing more than one man's heart.