Summary: House is so much easier to deal with when he thinks you're a hallucination. HW slash.
Start chapter:
Wilson awoke the to the familiar sight of House's TV from the perspective of the couch, and the familiar aching in his neck that resulted from sleeping in such an awkward position on something that was far too short. He sat up and stretched, idly massaging his neck with one hand as he headed for the kitchen to make himself some breakfast.
The less familiar sight of House sitting on the sideboard in the kitchen, however, made him stop dead; House wasn't usually even awake by this point of Wilson's morning ritual; it was at least half an hour until he stirred and another twenty minutes or so before he was mobile. So what was he doing up?
"You're up early," Wilson's comment invited an explanation, but didn't request it, and from the guarded look House gave him, he could tell that forcing the matter would most likely gain him nothing. Based on that assumption, he figured that not mentioning what had happened the previous night would not be a strategically sound move either. Especially since he was already struggling to suppress the urge to go for it and just fucking kiss him, because it was what they both wanted and he knew it. But House didn't. House had little recollection of his hallucinations, and since the events that had really occurred were jumbled in amongst them, Wilson doubted that any attempt he made at repeating them would be appreciated.
"Couldn't sleep."
House's voice was monotonous, and Wilson could almost see the barriers leaping up to surround his friend. He knew- had always known- that on these occasions, he couldn't push it and escape unscathed.
"How much do you remember?"
But he couldn't always help himself.
"I don't know."
"You don't know what was real?" Wilson continued to push, encouraged by the fact that House hadn't yet punched him in the face or stormed out; low expectations always seemed to help when trying to deal with House's emotions. House just looked at him, and Wilson took that to mean another, resounding-
"I don't know."
Wilson blinked in surprise as House spoke again; his willingness to reveal information and admit his uncertainty showing just how unsettled he was. Which part did he think was real?
"Do you remember hurting me?"
Wilson wasn't exactly sure what he was doing; was shamefully aware of the twinge of pleasure he got when House's eyes met his and there was fear in them that the other man so rarely displayed. He felt… wanted, and with House that was such a rarity he could do nothing but savour it.
"You didn't," Wilson clarified, as he noticed House's eyes lingering on his chest; concluding from that and House's behaviour the previous night that it had indeed been part of his dreams, "You thought you did."
House glared at him, angry with Wilson for messing with him for that brief moment; for making him believe that he had done something that he would truly regret.
Wilson opened his mouth, to ask his next question, but it caught in his throat at he considered the huge jump he was about to make. He was about to push the boundaries of his relationship with House; make irreparable changes to the only thing that kept him sane. And, paradoxically, the thing that came closest to driving him insane. For a moment he paused, considering his own feelings and the painful stirring in his chest that had resulted from what House had said the previous night. House's confession had hurt him and thrilled him in a way he'd never even imagined, allowed him to finally entertain fantasies of actually achieving what he'd only recently realised he'd always wanted.
He considered House's feelings; had spent the night doing so and was still struggling to come to a conclusion. They had kissed; that much he was sure House could handle. The fact that it had, in fact, happened twice, both on occasions when House was convinced he was in his own little fictional world, would confuse and frustrate him, because he hadn't been in control and he hated that more than anything. The knowledge that he had confessed his… was it love? House had said that he wanted to love him; suggesting that Wilson had to let him but possibly also that he had to let himself. And how much effort would it take for him to do that? How much effort would House be willing to make overall to make it work?
Because Wilson knew that, without a hell of a lot of effort; more than House had ever put in before, it wasn't going to work. Neither of them had either been with another man; House had admitted to having, on one occasion, a drunken fumble with another guy back in college, but nothing had come of it; they hadn't been together, like Wilson was about to suggest. They were friends, close but with a distance they were going to have to overcome in order to love like they wanted, and although this didn't just apply to House (Wilson really needed to say something to that new nurse in his department) Wilson was aware that he would be the more willing participant.
So he started small; knew that House was waiting for him to say something and that he would, eventually, have to explain.
"You don't remember that we kissed?"
House's eyes narrowed slightly; Wilson knew that he remembered at least one kiss, but if he'd been harbouring desires as deep and for as long as his earlier confession would suggest, he had probably imagined at least one.
"We kissed twice, House. The first time was pretty early on. You were convinced I wasn't real, by reasoning I'm sure I'll never understand. I told you that… you understood me."
"Understood what a fuck-up you really are," House echoed, his voice carrying a hint of resignation. This didn't surprise Wilson; in that particular scenario he had been the one to make the weightier confession, and House clearly felt that, since he'd been under the influence at the time, it wasn't something to trigger tremendous regret. Obviously he would rather it hadn't happened, but it was one of the better scenarios that had been swimming around in his head, since it basically alleviated him of responsibility for his actions.
"The second time…" Wilson paused again, aware that the reaction to this particular recollection was likely to be less than pleasant, since House clearly wasn't comfortable with the emotions he'd expressed, "You told me you cared about me. As more than a friend."
He saw House's eyes widen slightly, and moved closer, standing before House, his hands resting gently on House's legs, just above his knees, trying desperately to reassure him, to convince him that he'd done what was needed for the both of them to finally confront this.
"You almost told me you loved me," Wilson continued, forcibly casual even though he wanted to scream and jump for joy at the very thought of House admitting that he loved him, "I believe your words were… that you wanted to love me."
House was staring evasively at the floor, evidently unsure of how to respond to not only the recollection of events but also the proximity of another human being while he was at his most vulnerable. He'd handed the reins to Wilson; allowed him to dictate, really, what was real and what wasn't and Wilson could see he was teetering on the brink of a drop that could be excruciatingly painful for both of them. Still, though, Wilson pressed on, watching House's expression intently for any sign that he was about to give in to the ever present urge to push him away, because he was too close and if he let people get close they'd hurt him like Stacey did. Wilson knew that he thought that; he'd always thought it, every time anybody had touched him in the last 5 years he'd rejected them because he couldn't get hurt like that again.
But Wilson wouldn't do that. He'd do anything to stop House from getting hurt, and more than anything he wanted House to understand that like he seemed to understand everything else about him. Strangely, everything except the most important thing in his life, because House was just too damn self-deprecating to believe that somebody else could care about him that much. Could love him, despite how little he loved himself.
"What did you mean by that?" Wilson continued, softly, desperate to know, "What's holding you back?"
House was silent; Wilson knew that if he was going to get any answers he had to do most of the work himself.
"Is it me?"
House's eyes, big and blue, looked up at him, finally, imploring, pleading.
"I want you to love me. I want to be able… to hold you, to kiss you, to sleep beside you and… do my best to take away your pain."
Wilson's hand moved upwards, House not entirely sure what it was he was feeling as it only brushed his injured leg, continuing upward until Wilson's palm was flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat as it quickened from the contact and the words that touched him as much as anything ever had.
He was conflicted; he knew what he wanted but was aware that, goddamnit, he couldn't always get what he wanted. In fact, he rarely got what he wanted, and this… what he wanted was to get closer to Wilson than anybody else and to let Wilson get closer to him, but… what he needed was for Wilson to stay with him. He wasn't sure if he was good enough to make the risk of losing him… worthwhile.
Wilson could see it; could see House desperately fighting against something in himself and feel the doubt that resulted from it. He hadn't considered this; hadn't considered that House wouldn't want to push it, even though they both wanted it, because he was so scared. Which was one reason why, he supposed, when he spoke, he said something that he must have known he'd regret.
"We had sex, House."
As House stared at him, unable to believe what he was hearing (to be honest, Wilson couldn't really believe it either, but desperation kept his expression constant), one word floated to the top of Wilson's consciousness.
Fuck.
End chapter:
Well, I was going to make this the last chapter, but then I was suddenly overcome with an urge to make Wilson cry.
And, yeah, that other insatiable urge to torture you all. Because I can.
In reference to an earlier comment, I don't know what animal Wilson would be. Or Foreman. Which was why I only had the women. Is that because we can relate more to them, or because they're more two-dimensional?
Hmm…
