Chapter Ten

House didn't knock because he never knocked and pushed into Wilson's office. They were only a few minutes away from the end of their work day, so he figured Wilson would be tidying up some paperwork; signing the last few signatures, going over tomorrow's schedule-boring oncologist crap, except now he had Nazi Guy to consider so maybe it was slightly more interesting. In that respect, House almost preferred boring.

Some might assume he felt free and full of life, but that wasn't the case. Oh, he knew it was better off this way-him and Cuddy breaking up-and there was a weight lifted off of his shoulder. Just like when he thought he'd missed the donor meeting earlier that day, a part of him felt relieved that tomorrow he wouldn't wake to the sounds of Rachel crying and Cuddy attempting to be Suzy Homemaker. He wasn't a mess of depression and anxiety; he wasn't going to have to lock himself away and cry like a little girl or anything.

But he wasn't sprinting through tulips, either. He was on the slightly more content side of ending a relationship even if he was a bit disheartened, and that he could deal with.

He did, however, feel like getting filthy, stinking drunk with his best friend and having a night out, and so that was what he was going to do.

Wilson barely glanced at him as he entered, and then went about his business as he sat down in the chair usually reserved for dying people. House rolled his cane between his palms and licked his bottom lip, realizing he was more upset at the fact Cuddy was probably a wreck; he'd never been on this end of the dumping stick before. Well, except for with Cameron, but that hardly counted. Still, it was better to end a relationship after two months than after five years. Better for him to accept that he was a bastard and that very few people would be able to handle that than for him to get his hopes up, yet again, just for them to crash down when she inevitably dumped him.

Still, considering the fact the relationship he'd been pursuing for ages had just ended, he wasn't really as upset as he should've been. Oh, he wasn't a ray of sunshine-but he was . . . okay. A bit morose, perhaps, but okay.

He watched Wilson furrow his brows at a piece of paperwork as if confused as to how it had appeared in his hand, then stuck it underneath two other forms and let out an exasperated sigh. He closed a blue folder and looked between it and a puce folder before stacking them on top of each other, totally casual; at peace with the fact House was inches from him, staring at him, and with his life in general. Whenever he and Cuddy were in the room, she had to always keep her eye on him, or touch him, or talk to him-she couldn't ever just rest with the fact he was there.

He thought about the fact she was probably sobbing and considering herself a failure, and he did feel guilty but no guiltier than one would for reprimanding a child. It was for the best.

"I ended it with Cuddy," he stated after a long moment of comfortable silence.

Wilson stopped moving forms and folders around and then stared at House, as if unsure he'd heard him properly. He blinked quickly a few times, reeled his head back a little, and then furrowed his brows and then nodded slowly. "I'm . . . sorry," he settled for carefully, acting as though House might snap any second.

"No you're not," House snorted. "You didn't even want us together."

"Well . . . You didn't-I mean, it's not because I said-? House, you have to do what's right for you, even if I-"

"It's not because of you," he forestalled before Wilson could somehow convince himself that he actually wanted them together again or give House yet another speech about chasing away happiness and being addicted to misery or some other such boring, psychoanalytical lecture. "I talked with Nazi Guy."

Wilson waited for a moment for House to explain further. "Uh . . . what did he say?" he asked slowly, eyeing House suspiciously.

House rolled his eyes. "Okay, so it wasn't so much as talking with as telling him he was a moron, but it served its purpose. Now can we get out of here, pack my stuff, get totally wasted, watch some big-tittied girls fight over who gets to give us pretty doctors a lap-dance and handle this situation like men?"

Wilson visibly fought back a smile and House realized he was experiencing something like déjà vu, but in reverse. Normally Wilson was the recently-single bachelor needing a pick-me-up at the strip joint. Then again, Wilson was also usually the one being dumped, rather than the one dumping, so . . .

Being single while Wilson was dating was familiar, and that unsettling almost-morose feeling waned a little. It was just like old times, really, and when Wilson and Sam finally broke up, it would just be the two of them again, like always.

Wilson had purposely ignored the feeling of elation that had filled him when he'd heard House had broken up with Cuddy. Then came the guilt for feeling elated in the first place. He tried to tell himself that he was only against their relationship because it was entirely wrong, and as true as that was, it hadn't been the only reason and he knew it, too. As much as he had liked Stacy, and he knew House had been happy with her, there had been brief moments of jealousy that he'd bottled away, just like everything else.

Back then, though, he could have believed that it was just normal jealousy all friends felt. Since then, though, they had grown closer and, as much as House would probably deny it and Wilson would never admit it, their relationship had changed into something deeper. The jealousy he'd felt around Cuddy was more intense; the feeling of uneasiness, of not being quite on the ball, left him listless.

He could admit it now because House and Cuddy were no longer together, but although Cuddy was too professional to ever kiss him at work, just seeing them together and being able to tell the small differences had bothered him; left him feeling like he was two steps behind, like being the last kid to go through puberty all over again. Seeing them standing closer than they used to or House's hand touch her in lingering ways; brush the small of her back, brush aside her hair . . . House, although he refused to admit it, was a tangible person around certain people. People he cared about; he'd never been shy about small touches; touches that could've been passed off as unnoticeable. Knees brushing, arms touching, a quick knuckle across a shoulder . . . House wasn't averse to any of that.

Wilson had known what to look for because he'd been a part of it; he'd always been on the receiving end of those touches; touches House probably didn't even realize he was doing half of the time. Whenever he'd seen it around Cuddy, though, it had felt awkwardly unpleasant; like realizing he'd swallowed a spider in his sleep, or something else equally disheartening.

He'd grinned all the way to his car and had driven him to Cuddy's place so he could pack his things. He'd helped (which actually meant he'd pretty much done all the work while House awkwardly avoided the nanny and Rachel) with the packing and surprisingly, there hadn't been much. A few books, clothes, and toiletries; Wilson felt guilty pleasure in realizing House must not have expected to stay there long if he hadn't brought more.

Like when Wilson had been camping out on his couch, or House had been staying with him that short while after Mayfield-they'd just been having a perpetual sleepover. It hadn't been like when they moved into the loft.

Despite the awkwardness of packing up and the disapproving tutting noises from the nanny, House had stopped in front of Rachel, who had babbled something at him in Spanish. He'd glared at the nanny afterwards, then patted Rachel's head, nodded once at her, and left as Wilson carried the last box to the Volvo.

Wilson took his time putting the boxes in his trunk while House sat in the passenger seat and stared at the place he'd been living in for the past while. Wilson knew the feeling of driving away from a home for the final time well. He did not know the feeling of leaving a child; not that he thought House had ever really bonded with Rachel, but he was sure that there had been some feelings for her involved.

He sat in the driver's seat and House looked away from the window and at Wilson. Wilson buckled in and smiled. "Ready to go, or . . . ?"

House frowned, looked back at the house, then nodded.

They both remained silent for the rest of the drive. House didn't complain about the station Wilson switched the radio to or when Wilson found himself driving to the loft. In fact, he'd made it nearly a block away from it when he saw the ironic smile on House's face, realized what he was doing, then had to circle around the block and head in the opposite direction. Wilson had scoffed when House laughed, and even though the moment should have been uncomfortable it really hadn't been.

"You still pay for this place?" Wilson asked as they pulled up to the old apartment. The last time he'd been here, he'd interrupted some childish fun with Alvie and he'd felt irrationally jealous then, too. The time before that . . . Well, he'd been taking House to Mayfield.

"Be prepared," House mocked in his best imitation of Wilson's voice, which wasn't all that bad, actually.

Wilson unbuckled and got out of the car at the same time House did. "Were you, uh . . ." He cleared his throat and went to the trunk, knowing that House was watching him. "When you were living with me. In the loft. Were you still . . . ?" He gestured at the apartment as he popped the trunk open.

There was a brief silence. "Well, it was only a matter of time before some girl moved in and you kicked me out," he explained, not even bothering to evade or lie.

Wilson felt sick and stared at the boxes packed neatly beside one another. He felt House's hand on his and he looked at it; House pulled their hands away from the trunk and then slammed it shut for him. "House, wha . . . ?"

"Come on; let's leave that for later. Call up a cab; I don't plan on being able to drive tonight."

Wilson smiled and House leant against the back of the car, tie uneven, shirt untucked and a little wrinkled, and looking devilishly handsome. When House narrowed his eyes in what looked like confusion Wilson realized he'd been staring, so he cleared his throat and stepped away from the car. House hitched himself up on it, sitting on the trunk with his cane dangling between his spread legs, rolling it between his palms casually. Wilson reached into his cell phone to call the cab company.

"Spending the night?" House asked, eyes roaming up and down the familiar street; the skies were darkening.

Wilson smiled since he knew House wasn't paying attention. "Yeah, su-oh, wait. No. I . . . don't have a change of clothes."

"Sure you do. You left something here a bazillion years ago."

Wilson had left a few pairs of pants, some shirts, and a few ties here sometime during his marriage to Bonnie, seeing as he'd spent more time here than with her and afterwards he'd just left them there, since he had often impulsively spent the night. "I . . . thought you would've gotten rid of them," he admitted.

"Too lazy," House brushed off.

Wilson smiled softly at his friend, knowing that House was still busy looking around his street to notice. "Okay. But I'll have to call Sam first."

House waved his hand at him like he would to swat away a fly.

Wilson walked away although he doubted it was far enough to keep his conversation completely private were House to listen. He didn't care.

Her phone rang twice and she answered halfway through the third ring.

"Hello?" she asked although it was all show; she had caller ID. House had never bothered. He usually answered with a burp or some derogatory comment.

"It's James," he said. "I, uh . . . I won't be home tonight."

"Working late?" she asked quietly; her tone was a mixture of worry and something snide.

"No. It's just . . . House." He gritted his teeth against her loud scoff. He realized he was pacing a few steps back and forth. "He and Cuddy . . . broke up," he muttered and glanced at House, who appeared to have not heard a thing but appearances could be deceiving so he didn't really know if he had.

He waited for a sympathetic noise or a gasp of how horrible that was. She said nothing, not that he had expected her to or anything.

He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. "So I thought taking him out for a few drinks would be best; he's a little . . . upset." Which wasn't a lie; House was a little upset. Of course, his tone had implied that it was more than that. Manipulation had always been one of his better talents.

"Hmm. Drinking-do you think that best?"

At this point, he had no idea if she was nagging on his unhealthy food choices or his propensity to cheat. He'd always thought the former to be ridiculous; Wilson tended to be quite healthy in his food choices. He was a doctor for God's sake-he knew all about cholesterol, and he had his annual check-up. Of course he indulged every now and then, but he supposed to a health nut like Sam, indulging sometimes was something worth nagging over, and with the exception of wine with dinner occasionally she'd never been all that fond of drinking.

"I'm not going to sleep with him," he told her with an eye-roll.

"I wasn't suggesting . . ."

He waited for her to finish but she didn't. "Anyway, I was planning on spending the night; he probably shouldn't be alone right now. He hasn't been in a relationship since Stacy, so . . . Well, he was wreck after her."

The brief silence on the other end annoyed him. "Well . . . If you insist, but I'm having lunch with you tomorrow."

Wilson cleared his throat and felt his chest tighten sickeningly. "Er, Sam, that's-well, tomorrow, I might have to . . . add someone to my caseload, so-"

"Lunch at the hospital," she interrupted, and he knew that tone well-she was clenching her teeth and forcing a smile. "With House," she added.

He swallowed and looked back at House, who was swinging his legs alternately, still rolling his cane impatiently. Unlike House, Wilson was all right with compromise. "Okay, but let's try and leave work out of the conversation," he said, eyeing House as he looked over at Wilson and raised both of his eyebrows.

"I know you don't like talking about work at the table, honey," she soothed. "So I'll see you tomorrow then?"

"Of course," he said. He knew she was about to tell him she loved him, and he really could not handle that at the moment. "The cab's here; I have to go," he uttered quickly, the quickly hung up the phone.

Lying was also one of his better talents.

He went over to House as he slowly punched in the number for the first cab company he could remember. "Sam wants to have lunch with us tomorrow," he murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose as he held the receiver to his ear.

"And you want to keep work out of the conversation?" House aired innocently.

"Shut up," he murmured in response. House raised his eyebrows and Wilson sighed. "Look, it's different with you. You don't get . . . delicate."

All House did was snort back some laughter.

He hadn't been drunk for a long while, but he remembered why he'd enjoyed doing it as soon as the buzz melted into something deeper. Seeing the dopey, lopsided grin on Wilson's face made him laugh; having hot, scantily clad women grinding in his lap and pressing their chests in his face made him horny; catching Wilson staring darkly at him getting a lap dance made his head spin.

Wilson had declined the first two lap dances, but then he'd shrugged and chuckled when the third girl offered. House had watched and become irrationally aroused at seeing some hot blonde girl writhe all over his best friend; Wilson had chuckled but kept his hands of off her and then when she left he did a stupid little arm pump.

Even by the time they'd decided it was best to get back to House's apartment-they did have work in the morning, after all-they were still pretty toasted and had plopped onto the couch unceremoniously, knees and hips touching and the situation familiar and right and House just a tad horny still, his head thumping and buzzing to the steady thrum of music at the strip joint, although his apartment was silent.

They smelled of sweat and body lotion and perfume; the alcohol was a given. He smelled watermelons and laundry detergent and Wilson, too. He turned the television on and put it on a random channel; at this point, images and sounds were really all that mattered; he couldn't tell the difference between a commercial and a television show at this level of inebriation.

The strip joint seemed to have taken up hours and seconds of their lives simultaneously and the music still absently echoed in his brain. Wilson was slowly nattering on about something, but he couldn't concentrate on anything but what they were selling on TV.

He put his hand on Wilson's knee.

That felt right.

He and Wilson had been drunk plenty of times before, and he'd leant against his friend more than necessary; touched him on the knee, shoulder, hip . . . A part of him believed that if he wasn't constantly touching something it would leave him without his notice; he could hardly believe he'd managed to go a few months without bumping Wilson's arm with his.

Wilson snorted and at first House thought he was retching at the thought House was touching him, and then he heard the chuckles. "Do people actually buy any of that? The acting is so . . ." Wilson's head plopped on House's shoulder. ". . . fake," he yawned into his sleeve.

One of Wilson's arms was trapped between his own body and House's shoulder; the other draped over House's abdomen like a seatbelt.

Wilson was a bit grabby when he was drunk. Never quite like this, though. Maybe an 'accidental' hug or two, or an overly-kind compliment and flirty glance, but . . .

House swallowed a dry patch in his throat and his head plopped back against the couch, feeling the cushion against the base of his head. It was soft and warm, as was Wilson, nuzzling against his side and trying to scoot closer or into his body so they could become one; he wasn't sure. He knew Wilson was saying something about the infomercial being fake, though, his voice slowly quieting and tapering off without finishing a sentence. He felt the tip of Wilson's nose brush his neck and Wilson tightened his grip around his stomach, muttered something unintelligible, and House grunted tiredly.

Something loud interrupted his relaxed state and he snorted back some drool and coughed, sitting up straighter and staring at the television. An infomercial no longer graced his vision; instead, coloured bars and a loud beeping noise assaulted his ears. Whatever random channel he'd put it on apparently still went off air, and he must've fallen asleep without meaning to since it hadn't been that late a few seconds ago.

The remote on the cushion beside him was cold and he switched off the TV but when he went to move off the couch he felt tingles shoot up his leg and a dead weight on his shoulder.

He looked at Wilson's head, pressing insistently against his shoulder. Wilson's arm no longer secured itself around his abdomen tightly, but draped across his lap. He felt something warm and wet on his shoulder and realized Wilson had drooled and as disgusting as that was, House didn't really mind it. What he did mind was the almost-painful tingling up and down his bad leg, so he nudged Wilson roughly with his shoulder, who did an odd grunt mixed with a snore and then sat up straight, eyes lopsidedly closed and one side of his face red with the creases of House's shirt indenting his skin. "Hmm?" he managed, staring blearily at House, then plopped his forehead to his shoulder. "Mm, sleep House," he grumbled as a suggestion, wrapping his arm around him again like a teddy bear.

"Can't do that with you on me. And my leg's asleep," he said, oddly quiet seeing as they were alone and it was the middle of the night. Or rather, really early morning.

Wilson pushed away from House and stood up, rubbing the back of his neck and looking around the living room, probably for pillows. House moved to stand but his leg gave out underneath him because of the pins and needles, and he wordlessly lifted both of his arms and gave Wilson a pointed stare. Or at least he hoped it was a pointed stare-he was still drunk enough for the world to be tipping and reasserting itself every few moments. Wilson looked at him blankly for a few seconds, then wrapped his arms around House like he was giving him a bear hug and pulled him to his feet unsteadily, stumbling backwards but he didn't fall.

House draped his right arm over Wilson's shoulder and Wilson wrapped his arm around House's waist and they staggered in the direction of his bedroom, a familiar drunken path with a familiar Wilson-shaped crutch. Sometimes, familiarity bred contempt . . . but somehow, not with Wilson. Even as the floor dipped and swayed underneath him and his vision blurred, he could still move through his apartment out of reflex with Wilson at his side, pressed against him while they tried to keep each other steady-a feat far simpler now than it had been the first few times they'd done this after the infarction.

They somehow pushed the door open and tripped over their feet towards his bed.

Wilson stepped away from House but didn't leave; instead he grabbed House's shoulders and made him turn to face him, so that House's back faced the foot of the bed. Wilson steadied him, eyes unfocused but smile half-dopey. "House," he whispered, then frowned and pulled his head back. "House," he repeated slowly, as if he were a toddler trying out a new word, which was something House was unfortunately familiar with. He put one hand on his shoulder and blinked, opening his eyes wider than necessary and swaying slightly. "House, you can-" He hiccupped. "Can't sleep with a tie on."

House reached up and pawed at his tie, then realized that he was too tired and drunk to care if it got wrinkled. "You can iron it in the morning," he mumbled.

Wilson grabbed his shoulders. "It'll ch-oke you," he managed through a hiccup. He held House's face and smiled at him, thumb brazenly stroking his mouth although he probably thought he'd done it gently and House wondered where all this sudden flirtatious behaviour had come from or was he just now noticing it?

He grabbed House's tie and undid it, probably not nearly as smoothly as he normally could but House was busy staring at Wilson's mouth to truly care. The tie fell at his feet and Wilson made to bend over and pick it up, but House had been relying on his steadying grasp more than he'd thought and he began to tip backwards. He must've made a noise because Wilson looked up and House grabbed him as he fell backwards onto his bed, so that Wilson landed on him with an oomph.

House stared at his ceiling and scoffed back a chuckle. "Putting on weight recently?" he slurred, stroking Wilson's head.

Wilson hummed into his collarbone and it vibrated through his spine and sent goosebumps up his arm. He tugged at Wilson's hair in retaliation, but not hard. The noise Wilson made forced House's stomach to swoop and he hummed, scratching at Wilson's scalp.

"Your father wasn't a very good blanket-maker," House murmured many moments later and only because his ribs were starting to disagree with the position.

Wilson grunted, crawled sluggishly away from House's body and then plopped onto the pillow on the left side of the bed. House waited for a few seconds, then scooted so that he could lie beside his friend, on his left side so he could face him. With his face buried in the pillow but still in the same clothes he'd worn all day, Wilson looked almost dead. House nudged him, perhaps a bit harder than necessary, in the ribs.

Wilson let out a groan to show he'd felt the unsubtle jab.

"This isn't your bed," House reminded.

Wilson turned his head away from the pillows to stare at him with half-closed lids. "Bed's halfway 'cross town, House," he grumbled.

"Your bed's in the living room."

Wilson whined then got on his hands and knees, and despite his warning of being choked he'd given House, he still wore his ugly tie. He didn't make it off the bed though. He just flopped onto his back as if he'd wasted all of his energy to move. He stared up at the ceiling, then clumsily worked away the knot in his tie.

"I'll go to the couch later," he promised tiredly, tossing his tie to the floor.

"No you won't," House predicted, tracing a line down Wilson's side with his finger.

Wilson grinned and his eyes fluttered shut.

House waited for him to bat his hand away or make some sarcastic comment about the couch being too lumpy, but he didn't. He just continued smiling lazily as House stroked his side again.

"I thought you told Sam you weren't gonna sleep with me," he wheedled, but the fact he slid his fingers down Wilson's arms and pet the inside of his palm contradicted his words and he knew it. He had no idea what he was doing or why, but he blamed it on the alcohol.

He really ought to have been more upset at being single, and yet . . .

He blamed that on the alcohol as well. That was the safest route.

He tapped the middle of Wilson's palm and Wilson chuckled. "Yeah, well, since when do I keep my promises to my girlfriends?"

"Oh-hoh, someone's getting introspective," House mocked, tracing his vein for a brief second. The human body was interesting-soft peach tones covering thin, barely visible blue, leading into the red, red heart and grey, grey brain . . . blue leaking into blood when it was brought to the surface, the hue violated by layers of skin . . . Warm underneath his fingertips when he slid them into between Wilson's fingers.

Wilson hummed and squeezed his hand. "Y'know what I think?"

House held on tightly. "What do you think?" he whispered, staring at Wilson's face; eyes closed, grin barely there, and pristine clothes wrinkled and world ticking to the right repeatedly.

"I . . . think . . ." He managed before sighing. His hand went limp and his head dropped to the side slightly, facing House just a tad more.

There were two types of people, House had decided long ago-the type who, when they slept, looked peaceful and beautiful; like a princess, waiting to be rescued. And then there were the people who looked absolutely, one hundred percent, conked out and dead to the world. Although Wilson was the latter, House couldn't take his eyes off him, until he felt his eyes slide shut and darkness settle in.