Ok, geez - so I just realized it's been nearly a month since updated this here on , and now I feel like a cheese head for making you all wait. (Please don't hate me - it was the coffee. It just wasn't there for me when I needed it. *sniff* *tear*.) But seriously - thanks for all the site hits, and the comments - you all rock!
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Wilson's resolve lasted until about eleven that night, when he discovered himself in his bathroom with a beard he hadn't shaved, or even looked at, since the morning Olivia put him on psych leave. He blinked at his reflection in the mirror, slightly horrified to know that he had been walking around the hospital like that. He did not – emphatically, categorically not – look good with facial hair. In fact, he looked like a cross between a hobo and a teenager trying desperately to appear older than he actually was. These unflattering mental images were accentuated by his mussed hair, which needed to be trimmed before it obscured his eyes, and the rumpled olive green polo shirt he was wearing.
After he shaved, Wilson saw himself as House saw him: the impossibly smooth-cheeked, chocolate-eyed, lonesome boy wonder oncologist – Saint James with the perpetual sad tint to his features even when the smile he forced appeared convincing. House would see through that, he thought. In fact, House had seen through that; that was why Olivia had accosted him. House had been worried, and House had cared enough to want to help. But House didn't know how to give Wilson what he needed, so he sought out someone who did and pointed her at him. Then as thanks, Wilson had disappeared on him. Being mad at House for what he'd done, that was one thing. Abandoning him without a word of explanation… Wilson didn't even have the gallon of milk to show for that.
Even though House wouldn't understand, Wilson stopped at an all-night convenient store for a gallon of milk on his way to 221B. He could use it in pancake batter or something.
It didn't seem appropriate to use his key even though House had repeatedly referred to his apartment as Wilson's home too, probably without realizing he was doing it. The image of House coldly pulling the blinds in his office with Wilson standing right there outside the glass floated through Wilson's mind as he knocked. It was nearly midnight, but light shone under the apartment door. If House were already asleep, it was in a lump on the couch that he should get up from anyway to spare his leg the contortion.
Wilson waited a minute and then rapped his knuckles harder against the green paint. Nothing. He sighed and pounded with the edge of his fist. House was either ignoring the world altogether, or he recognized the way Wilson knocked; either was possible.
"House?" Wilson made a pitiful face at the door, and then peered expectantly at the peephole before casting a glance at the floor. "Come on," he called. "I know you can hear me." He leaned into the door to listen closer, then frowned. Maybe House really couldn't hear him. Maybe he had his iPod on or something. Wilson fiddled at the door for another few seconds and then gave an exasperated sigh as he dug his keys out. He opened the door slowly just in case House was absorbed in some song; Wilson didn't want to startle him.
His caution proved unnecessary; the living room was empty. Wilson stuck his head as far into the room as he could, just to make sure, and then shuffled inside. "House? Are you home?" A quick glance revealed that the place was spotless. Truly spotless, like the way Wilson might leave it after a frantic day-long cleaning session.
That brought another pensive frown to Wilson's face and he inspected the rest of the apartment to find everything in a similar state. No socks or sneakers littered the floor, the dishes were all washed and put away, countertops and sinks in both the kitchen and the bathroom were scrubbed clean, as was the shower. Corners had been swept out, shelves dusted, books and magazines straightened and relegated to their proper places, piano music stashed in the bench where it belonged. It was actually rather disturbing; House's apartment was never this well put together, like something out of a Good Housekeeping magazine. Not even his office saw this level of neatness. Hell, not even Wilson's office saw this level of neatness.
Wilson approached the closed bedroom door last, expecting to find House asleep or passed out. When he cracked the door open, he found that room empty as well, but at least it hadn't achieved a creepy state of pristine, un-lived-in sterility like the rest of the apartment. That didn't exactly alleviate Wilson's anxiety. He pushed the door all the way open and stared at the chaos inside. It looked like House had started to clear Wilson's things out, and then stopped mid-project. Half the closet was empty and the bottom bureau drawer stood open and bare. Tailored suit pants and blazers littered the bed, most of them neatly folded, some of them bagged.
Wilson shook his head, bewildered. He had figured out by now that House thought they were through, that Wilson didn't have any fondness left for him. But if House were trying to rid himself of the reminder of Wilson, why fold everything so carefully? Why pack it away in a manner sure to minimize wrinkling? House's style dictated that he crumple everything, perhaps step on it or run it over with his motorcycle, and then dump it in a stinking pile on the sidewalk in front of Wilson's apartment. Or maybe soak it all in skunk juice and Fed-ex it to him. Something uncivilized. There was no call for such niceness.
With a last puzzled glance at the bedroom, Wilson backed out, pulling the door shut behind him. He made a trip back to the kitchen to put the milk that he was still carrying in the fridge, and then he stood on the living room threshold, one hand on his hip and the other curled around the back of his neck. It was obvious, at least to him, that House had not been home for several days. Wilson could probably confirm that by checking the mailbox for a buildup, but he really didn't need to. He supposed that House might have a suitably consuming case, but rumors always got around when those sorts of patients hit the diagnostics department; people liked to speculate on House's motives, and on top of that, no one could resist a good mystery. Especially intrepid or arrogant students often tried their hands at out-diagnosing him, too; sort of a medical version of Win Ben Stein's Money, or something.
Wilson had been out of the loop lately, but not that out of the loop. He would have heard about any case interesting enough to keep House in his office for a week straight. He supposed that House may have gone to a hotel, but that was Wilson's thing. Besides, this was House's apartment; he wouldn't abandon it just because Wilson used to all but live here. And House had been at PPTH all week, so Wilson knew that he hadn't skipped town for a few days. It didn't make sense, this odd scene.
Before leaving, Wilson scrawled out a note on the back of a Wal-Mart receipt and left it on the kitchen island where he hoped House would see it, pinned under an unopened bottle of Marsala that Wilson had bought ages ago for cooking purposes. Then he made sure that nothing else had been disturbed by his passage and locked the apartment on his way out.
He was wide awake now and in no mood to putter around with Amber's things, so Wilson drove at random for a while, thinking about nothing aside from how to mend things with House. He had been drifting in a fog ever since the shooting, his brain scrambled with indefinite concerns, haunted by memories of red handprints and dripping sheets. He knew better than to think that House was okay, that he could cope with no lasting effects. He also knew that House's method of dealing involved alcohol, pills, slovenly wallowing on his couch, and Wilson. Wilson's absence should have simply led to more of the other coping mechanisms. This was just bizarre.
At some point, Wilson realized that he was headed toward PPTH. Paperwork couldn't hurt, even if it was midnight, so he went ahead and pulled into the employee parking lot when he got there. House's parking space was empty, but that didn't mean he wasn't there; he often parked in the garage in inclement weather, and it looked about ready to rain. Still, Wilson didn't expect to find him in his office when he stepped off the elevator.
Sure enough, the diagnostics offices were dark, and Wilson almost went to his own office without looking any closer. Something stopped him, though, and he sidled closer to the conference room window before he registered what it was that gave him pause. Through the half-closed blinds, Wilson could make out someone slumped over the table, head pillowed on arms in the midst of books and test results, files, takeout containers, MRI films and old coffee mugs. Wilson had to squint with his face mere millimeters from the glass to confirm that it was, indeed, House sleeping in a hard chair with his face turned into his elbow.
Wilson hesitated outside the door, unsure if a late-night argument was really a good idea right now, but he couldn't just walk on by. With a sigh, Wilson finger-combed his hair into some semblance of order, and then pushed the door open on silent hinges. House didn't stir when Wilson padded up beside him, so Wilson repositioned a chair and sat down. He just stared for a while, watching House's back rise and fall with his steady respirations, noting the way that his breaths stirred the fabric of his shirt sleeve. Even asleep, House looked worn. Dark smudges colored the bags under his eyes and his hair stuck up all over the place in a parody of his usual unkempt hairdo. Wilson reached out to smooth one particular tuft down over his ear and House snuffed without waking. Wilson's fingers trailed to House's shirt collar, where he stopped long enough to realize that it was one of his dress shirts. House was wearing Wilson's shirt.
"God," Wilson muttered. He pulled his hand back and hung his head for a second, untrimmed fingernails stuttering against a file. Why did this have to be so hard? Him and House – it should have been natural. They'd been fake-flirting for years, learning to put up with each other, read each other, manage each other, be there… There was hardly any transition at all between friends and partners; it should have been easy to take this step, to be in a committed physical relationship, and yet it wasn't. Every road block set them back, they fought like cat and dog… Why couldn't Wilson make this work? He had fought to hold his marriages together, whatever his motives or feelings – why couldn't he manage to fight for this? Why not for House? Was it just too much? After all these years, was he simply out of impetus?
House started awake with a choked grunt and Wilson jumped in his seat. A few sleepy blinks led House's gaze to Wilson, and then he froze. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"You weren't at your apartment." Wilson lowered his eyes and drew his hands back to clasp them between his knees. "We need to talk."
House gave a derisive snort and sat up, stretching to crack his back in the process. "There's nothing to talk about. Get lost."
"I'm sorry." Wilson chanced to look up, but House was guarded as a steel bastion, so he repeated, "I'm sorry."
"Whatever." House glanced off to one side and then pushed himself to his feet. "I'm busy." He made his way slowly to the coffee maker, using the chair to aid his gait instead of the cane hooked over the white board near Wilson's elbow.
"Not right now, you're not." Wilson stood too, but he stayed poised between chairs by the table.
"Seriously," House said. He twisted his upper body so that he could treat Wilson to the full effects of snark. "I have a case."
Wilson sighed and shoved one hand into his jeans pocket. The other itched to knead at his neck, but he forced it to remain hanging at his side. "I should have come home. House, I – "
"Dammit." House scowled at the sludge burned into the bottom of the coffee pot, and glanced over his shoulder at Wilson. "That goes for you too, you know."
Wilson pursed his lips as House limped past him to grab his cane. "House, just…please. Let me explain."
"Nothing to explain," House said, making his way to his office. "I get it. You can go now."
Wilson couldn't stop the anger engendered by that, and he shouted, "You don't get it! You never get it, you pompous ass!"
House paused to crane his neck and raise his eyebrows over his shoulder.
"Just sit down," Wilson snapped. He tried to sound pleading, but he was too upset.
House screwed his mouth up to one side and then let out a short bark of laughter before he continued out of the room.
Wilson fumed in place and then stalked after him, undaunted when House shoved through the balcony door. Wilson caught the door before it swung shut and nearly clipped House's ankle when he savagely shoved it open. "Why won't you listen to me for once?"
House rounded on him without warning. "Why should I? You left, Wilson. You left! I didn't do anything – that was all you! It's not my fault you're a pussy who can't handle things getting a little out of his control."
"Yeah," Wilson agreed, mollified now that he could see a matching anger in House's countenance. He leaned back since House was in his face, and he didn't need them to be this close right now. "And I'm apologizing for it."
"Oh, well in that case, everything's fine again. Cheers." House shot him a murderous look and then turned his back on Wilson long enough to fumble in his pocket. Wilson expected a pill bottle to emerge, but House pulled a pack of cigarettes from his blazer instead.
"What the hell are you doing?" Wilson jabbed several fingers in the direction of the cigarette that House extracted.
House affected one of his mock innocent faces. "Crocheting a doily."
Wilson started to retort and then blew a breath out through his nose while House lit up, his lips pressed together to prevent a lecture on the evils of lung cancer. "You know you shouldn't do that, House. You have a clotting disorder."
"Oh no. Really?" House made a faux horrified face. "Gee, it's a good thing you're a doctor."
Wilson passed a hand over his eyes and then placed both hands on his hips. "This is serious."
House took a long drag and then puffed the smoke in Wilson's face before answering. "Yeah, it is," he drawled with a surprising lack of heat. "So damn serious that you tossed me a bottle of oxy and then didn't come home for a week." He paused. "Or is that another one of those things you think I don't get?"
Wilson softened his voice even more, as if he could douse the argument broiling beneath House's accusation. "I didn't leave you with a bottle of pills, House. I forgot I had them. Foreman and Chase had a new script phoned in."
House turned sideways, his smoke-ringed face in profile against the lights of the walkway four floors beneath them while he digested the realization that his underlings had tricked him. Wilson wondered what House felt at that – did he feel betrayed? Was it like when Wilson had dosed his coffee with antidepressants? Or was it just more of what he had come to expect from the people around him, another painstaking manipulation to be taken in stride?
Wilson sighed. "Look. This hasn't been easy for me."
"Yeah, because it was a cakewalk for me."
"Stop being you for a minute," Wilson snapped. "I'm trying to tell you I was an ass."
House bit back whatever snappy comeback he had thought up, and then growled around the cigarette.
Encouraged, Wilson took up a more reasonable stance, but he couldn't seem to spit out what he really wanted to say. Instead, he asked, "How have you been?"
House gave him an incredulous look and Wilson noticed that his lips were chapped. How many cigarettes had he smoked lately? Then House gave a shrug that consisted of some sort of jerky head and shoulder movement, and faced forward again. "Which one of the kiddies came crying to you? Was it Chase? He never could stand it when Mommy and Daddy fight."
Since denials would set off House's lie detector, Wilson replied, "It was Foreman. He told me I'm worse than you."
"You are." House inhaled more cigarette and in the silence, Wilson could hear the faint crackle of burning tobacco.
"I know." Wilson let his hands slide from his hips and into his pockets, and he turned to look out over the campus grounds, his shoulder perilously close to House's. Even more quietly than before, he repeated, "How have you been?"
"Just dandy." House slumped and leaned harder on his cane, with the unintentional side effect of bringing his shoulder into contact with Wilson's arm.
Wilson tried not to react to the touch because he couldn't be sure if House did it on purpose, and he didn't want to prompt a retreat. "They're worried about you."
"Big deal."
Wilson glanced over and his eyes fell on the cigarette held loosely between House's fingers. "Can you put that out?"
He anticipated a rude comment and more deliberate smoke-blowing, but House merely gazed down at the cigarette before stubbing it out on the balcony wall. Then he tossed the butt out into space and peered at the rooflines of the buildings across the way.
Wilson averted his eyes and picked at the wall in front of him. "I'm sorry I disappeared on you. I didn't mean to, I just… I thought that's what you wanted."
"Then you're an idiot."
Wilson nodded. "House – "
"I shouldn't have sent the psychiatrist after you."
Wilson looked at him and his head fell to one side. "Yes, you should have. I needed it."
House fidgeted for a second. "But you left."
Since House seemed to be fixated on that one point, Wilson decided to stick with it for now. "I shouldn't have. You didn't deserve that."
House seemed puzzled by that, and though he angled a bit toward Wilson, he didn't look at him. "It pissed you off."
"House, I was messed up. I didn't know what to do except get away."
House ignored him. "I expected you to be mad, I just figured you'd be mad at home."
So House still considered his apartment to be Wilson's home too. That was heartening, at least. In a rare moment of honesty, Wilson admitted, "I couldn't face you."
House finally looked at him, but whatever he meant to say died on his lips. His eyes flickered about Wilson's head and shoulders, seeing past him, and then House turned toward the balcony wall again.
"Not because of what you did," Wilson said. "It wasn't that."
"Then what?" House demanded.
Wilson started at the rough quality of House's voice. "I fucked up. Big time," Wilson said. "I let you down, I – I hit you, and I practically attacked you over some stupid letters."
House shook his head and nodded at the same time, a singularly bewildered gesture. "You let me down? You disappointed me?" He tried to give an incredulous snort, but he didn't make it past flummoxed.
Wilson shrugged, at a loss. "Isn't that the point you were just trying to make?" He gestured between them.
House cast him a furtive glance. So yes, but…no. Not really.
"House…" Wilson shook his head. "What, you think I wouldn't realize that?"
House mumbled, "Didn't think you'd say it."
"Why wouldn't I say it?"
"You never have before." House's eyes darted toward him again, but didn't stay.
"I never realized I needed to before," Wilson replied. Then he pressed his lips together in an aborted frown. "I guess I needed an illusion too." He waited for House to sift through conversations and recall what he had said to Wilson that first time, on the couch. I want the illusion. I don't have anything else left.
House's eyes sidled away toward Wilson's half of the balcony, and then he mumbled, "It's not an illusion."
"Part of it was," Wilson countered. "I needed to be the good guy. I always needed to be the – the giver and the provider…everything you accuse me of being."
"And now you don't anymore?"
The amount of venom in House's voice took Wilson aback, but he glossed over it. "I don't know. Do I? Is that what you want from me?"
House shifted, ill at ease, then sneered, "No," as if the word itself offended him.
Before House could draw any false conclusions, Wilson assured him, "The important parts were always real, House. What we are – it's not an illusion. It was just me…that part about me, what I was doing… That part…" Wilson sighed and smashed a palm over his face before bracing it back on the balcony wall. "I'm messing this up again. I don't know how to explain it."
"You needed your persona," House offered.
Wilson shrugged, then nodded. "Yeah. Basically, yeah. I needed to believe I was him."
House looked away, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I knew that already."
"I know." Wilson made a face at the stone beneath his hands. "I'm sorry he hurt you."
All the candor was making House restless, but he stilled himself beside Wilson and replied, "He didn't mean to."
"No," Wilson agreed. "I didn't." That didn't mean much, though; House said that about everyone who hurt him. Wilson took a breath and then turned to lean back against the balcony wall. He couldn't address that here; it was too large an issue. "So, I need to know: Is it over? Did I push it too far?"
House threw him a surprised look, and then covered it up with the sort of nonchalance that betrayed how hurt he really was. "You think it's that easy to get rid of me? Gee, it's like I never stalked you before."
Wilson smiled, but a pang twisted in his chest. The expression melted away, leaving only Wilson and his insecurity behind. "Did I?"
House shrugged, self conscious and uncomfortable over the fact. "Dunno. Didn't think you were coming back this time." He paused, then confessed, "When you called Tuesday night, you didn't leave a message. I called you back but you didn't answer, so I went over to your apartment and you weren't there. And then you wouldn't talk to me in my office, and I thought…" He lifted his shoulders again and fumbled his way back to lean on the divider between their balconies, relieving the strain on both his legs. "Thought that was it. I thought…I tried to do something right, and I fucked it up again, and now you hated me."
Even though Wilson appreciated the honesty of that response, it left a patch of ice coiled in his stomach. "I don't hate you." They had to be okay. House wasn't tossing him out on his ass, so that had to mean they would be okay.
"I've been thinking... I can't keep doing this with you," House said. He tried to look in some direction that would hide his face from Wilson, but the shadows were too evenly spaced. "I can't just…let you. Not anymore."
Wilson pushed off the wall and took a few steps toward him. He didn't want to crowd House, but in the confined space, he could do little else. "I don't want you to." He couldn't remember the last time House had spoken like this – had stated that he wouldn't let Wilson walk all over him. Yes, House often acted like King Shit, but he always backed down at some point; when it came to himself, he always gave in. Very few people pushed hard enough to get past the surface snark, but once they pierced the veneer, all resistant puttered out. "I don't want you to settle for me, and I don't want you to think that have to put up with crap just because it's coming from me. You deserve better than that."
House leaned farther back, manufacturing a buffer zone that didn't exist between them, and turned to stare into his conference room. The words were barely there, but Wilson heard him whisper, "So do you."
Maybe House meant that he deserved better than someone who would settle on him, or maybe he meant that Wilson deserved better than him. Whichever it was, Wilson shook his head. "I don't want better, House. I just want you."
House made a face at the glass and then tucked his head, his cane thumping against the ground near his foot. Under his breath, he muttered, "Sap," but he was clearly too uncomfortable to engage in normal banter.
Wilson reached out to brush a few fingers over House's cheek, and House flinched back. He immediately tucked his chin, embarrassed by his response, so Wilson touched again, his shoulder this time. He could feel House quell the instinct to move away again, so Wilson just gave a gentle squeeze and withdrew toward the door. "Come home with me?"
House glanced up, brows arched but his head still lowered. "Place is a mess."
"Only the bedroom," Wilson countered. "It doesn't matter."
"Oh." House scrunched his nose up to hide whatever real expression crossed his face. "You went in."
Instead of addressing that, Wilson commented, "I'm impressed. Did you call a service?"
"No." He moved his shoulders again, and Wilson realized that he was beyond restless at this point, trapped in a conversation by virtue of a stone wall and Wilson blocking the door. "You yelled at me."
Wilson narrowed his eyes as he interpreted that. Right…the food on the coffee table, and the fight just before Wilson left.
House glanced up to see if Wilson had followed his remark, and then he pulled another face. "I figured when you came back, maybe you wouldn't be so mad. Cuz you're always cleaning up after me."
Wilson wasn't entirely sure how to respond, so he settled on an awkward, "Thanks."
House nodded. "Sure, whatever." He paused to squirm some more, then added, "Don't think it's gonna happen often."
Wilson grinned. "I'm the girl in the relationship, remember? I'm supposed to do the domestic crap."
House's lips curled too, and he said, "That was so sexist. Fem-nazis are gonna come after you one of these days."
"That sounds sorta kinky." Wilson fought not to turn into the grinning sap that House had already accused him of being. He couldn't even place his level of relief on a scale.
House let the smile come out this time. "They can't have you." He hefted his cane. "I'll beat them off if I have to."
"My hero." Wilson faked a swoon and fell back against the door.
House grumbled something unintelligible and then snarked, "Quit being stupid."
Wilson straightened and held the door open. "You like it," he stated, then jerked his head toward the door. "Come on. I'm tired."
House thumped his cane a few more times, rapid rubber beats against concrete, and then he pushed himself off the wall. He stopped in front of Wilson, though, and backed down a little before he said, "And if…I mean it, if you ever hit me like that again – "
"I know," Wilson broke in. "I know. I can't even – "
"Just don't." House backed off even more, into his office. "I was…you… It scared me. It shouldn't have, but it did. I know you get…weird about things, and you throw things, but you never… I don't want to feel that way with you."
Wilson was nodding the whole time, shame burning his cheeks. "I know. I'm sorry. You have no idea how sorry."
"It's a deal breaker," House insisted.
Wilson swallowed. "Okay. That's only fair."
House studied Wilson's shoes for a moment longer, grimaced at the night past Wilson's shoulder, and then pivoted on his good leg like the conversation had never happened. He hopped around his desk chair to fish his backpack out from under his desk and Wilson released the balcony door. The soft hiss of hydraulics exploded across the room and Wilson glanced back to make sure that the door didn't stick on its way shut.
"Wilson?"
Wilson jumped and spun to face House, who was waiting near the hallway door. "Right. Sorry. I just have to…" He made an awkward gesture at his coat, which he had left in the conference room, and House hobbled out into the hallway while Wilson went to retrieve it. They met up again at the elevator. "Um…House?"
House grunted at him to go on.
"I think… I mean, I'd like it if maybe… Don't bite my head off, okay?"
House turned his head like a lizard in the sun, the rest of his body frozen on a warm rock.
"I know it was a bad idea before," Wilson babbled. "The whole…Cuddy's thing with the couples counseling." He chewed his lip for a second, then blurted out, "Maybe you could come to a session with me." He held up a hand to ward off a surefire insult. "Just once. Just…if you want to. I just think maybe…I'd want you there…maybe."
House looked back at the elevator as it dinged and then preceded Wilson inside, silent as death. They had reached the ground floor and Wilson was beating his head against a metaphorical wall for asking when House finally groused, "Fine. But only once, and I'm not talking to her."
Wilson didn't immediately follow him out, he was so stunned. Then he smiled in relief and hurried after his gimp friend. "Thanks, House."
"Shut up," House snapped, but there was little true bite in it.
Wilson grinned at that too, or at least until House glared at him for it. Going home felt good; he'd been away too long.
* * *
It was easier for them both to take Wilson's car since House was too exhausted to drive and they were going to the same place anyway. About halfway there, Wilson started wondering whether going back to 221B was actually a good thing or not. They drove in silence that Wilson thought was comfortable until he noticed that House kept tossing him uncertain glances. Between flickers of eyes, House stared out the passenger side window and fiddled with his cane. At one point, he took a pill, but he tried to do it discretely, like he didn't want Wilson to notice.
"I can see you, you know," Wilson offered.
House threw him another one of those glances, and then glowered at the door handle.
Wilson let his eyes drift in House's direction, but he kept the road in his periphery. Then he rolled his eyes. "House, come on. I'm not gonna say anything about the pills."
"Not right now, maybe," House muttered. Then just for the hell of it, he added, "You suck."
"And you're deflecting," Wilson countered. He made an effort to sound less confrontational. "What's bothering you?"
"Nothing."
Wilson threw him a sidelong glance.
House sighed. "I'm tired, okay? I haven't slept in a while and I'm cranky. Just stop with the care and consideration act. It's annoying."
Wilson frowned and concentrated on driving for about thirty seconds. Then he sighed. "Look; I already know you haven't been compliant this past week. Foreman told me."
A low grumble permeated the still interior of Wilson's car, and House puffed his cheeks around a mouthful of air before exhaling in an irritated rush. "Wilson, I haven't been compliant in like a month."
Wilson glanced at him, then had to concentrate on the road. "But I've seen you take your meds. I've given them to you a few times when you've forgotten."
"Here and there, yeah, I take them," House snapped back. "To shut you up." He fiddled with his cane and kept on making faces at the window. Eventually, he got quieter and remarked, "They don't work. It's like before, right after my leg. Nothing works."
Wilson finished the unspoken thought. "Except Vicodin." Then he scowled at the windshield, unwilling to either stop the confrontation or look at House lest the man give him one of those baleful looks that always brought out the enabler in Wilson. "House, you're a doctor. How do you expect the new meds to work if you don't stick to the schedule?"
House inserted, "I did stick to the schedule."
Without acknowledging the interruption, Wilson replied, "For one month. That's not indicative of anything, and you know it. You may as well just not take them at all."
"Even you said they weren't working," House bit back. "You got all doe-eyed in the kitchen, remember?" He glared daggers out the window, and under his breath, he added, "Fucking hypocrite."
Wilson sucked in a breath, then let it whistle out between his teeth before he said something he might regret. A moment later, he acknowledged, "Okay, you're right. But you said you'd try something other than Vicodin, and then you said you'd give this another month – "
"Will you stop harping on me about the damn pills!" House's face snapped toward Wilson and then he drew back against the passenger side door, defensive. "I'm not overdosing. I know I have a problem, and I'm dealing with it. It's under control. I'm not hurting anyone, Wilson."
Before he could consider it, Wilson retorted, "Except yourself. And me, because I have to watch you slowly kill yourself via liver failure."
"Stop! I'm fine. You don't need to worry about it anymore. I can handle it."
Wilson swallowed hard and shut up. He really didn't want to start another fight so soon after somehow wheedling his way back into House's good graces less than half an hour ago. But House's words struck him. It was like House was trying too hard to get Wilson to lay off, even considering his usual attitude about any attempt that Wilson made to address his pill use. It almost seemed like House thought he shouldn't be burdening Wilson with his problems, as if he shouldn't need help. House had never been easy to deal with, and Wilson had a bad habit of focusing on House, to his own detriment. Maybe House was trying to put an end to his dependency on Wilson in his own screwed up fashion. He didn't blame himself for Wilson's breakdown, did he? He couldn't possibly think that Wilson shouldn't have to cope with his addiction and the stress of managing the chronic pain.
Wilson glanced aside as they approached a red light, and found House brooding at his window again, one hand on the head of his cane, the other on his bad thigh, absently working at it through his jeans. House had pressed his forehead against the glass and Wilson could see the reflection of his eyes as they roamed aimlessly over the sidewalk. The light was still red, so once Wilson came to a full stop, he reached past the center console and grasped House's forearm. "House…"
As soon as Wilson's hand came to rest over House's arm, House yanked himself out of reach and recoiled against the door. "Stop it!"
Wilson jumped and then made a point of staring out the windshield, stunned. He could hear House breathing hard beside him and chanced a glance. House had jammed himself up against the passenger side door, his breath leaving steamy patches on the window in front of him. The light turned green – Wilson only knew because it cast a sickly-colored pall over House's face – and they continued to ride in silence. At some point, House ducked his head as if to hide, perhaps embarrassed by his outburst, and Wilson watched him covertly when they hesitated at a stop sign, troubled by the quiet.
Eventually, they pulled up in front of House's apartment, and Wilson couldn't stand any more awkward silence. "What's wrong?"
House shook his head against the window and mumbled, "Tired."
"You were fine when we left the hospital," Wilson pointed out.
"And then you ruined it," House snapped. Then he shuddered and swallowed a few times, his forehead pressed to the plexiglass.
Wilson shifted the Volvo into park and slumped back in his seat. "I'm worried about you. That's all, House."
"Yeah, well I told you to knock it the fuck off. I don't need you." House sat up to undo his seatbelt and then glared at Wilson for good measure before climbing slowly out of the car. A moment later, Wilson switched off the ignition and followed suit. He lingered at the mailboxes while House unlocked his apartment door, just to make sure that he was still welcome. House left the door standing halfway open for him, so Wilson grabbed the mail and shuffled inside.
The place was just as immaculate as when Wilson left it earlier that night, which was probably why House made a point of toeing his shoes off in the middle of the floor and then tossing his jacket on the couch. "I'm going to bed."
Wilson nodded even though House had his back to him. "Okay." It wasn't much of a stretch to imagine just how worn out House had to be, considering that it appeared as if House hadn't been home in several days. "I'll be there in a minute."
"Whatever." House grabbed a magazine off his desk, some tabloid, and then limped heavily down the hall.
Wilson watched him disappear into the bathroom, then turned around to lock up and switch off the lights. He moved House's shoes to the mat by the door, added his own to the pile, and hung up both their coats before he headed for the kitchen. He was staring into the empty, scoured sink before he realized that he was looking for something to clean just to occupy his hands. House hadn't left so much as a crumb for him to wipe up. Somehow, that disconcerted him even more, and he wandered to the bedroom only because he knew that it was a mess.
While he put the room to rights, he heard House start the shower. Ten minutes later, the water shut off and lopsided thump-steps indicated House's movement around the bathroom. Wilson imagined House drying off, followed by the plop of a damp towel hitting the floor. Then House hobbled back out into the hallway. Wilson paused to watch him come in and climb into bed, shutting off the light as if Wilson weren't there on the other side of the room, observing him. Without a word, Wilson fumbled in the dark for a clean pair of pajamas from the pile he had made of his clothes on the floor, then felt his way out to begin his own nighttime routine.
A few minutes later, Wilson joined him in bed, still licking the flavor of toothpaste from his lips. House rolled over, putting his back to Wilson, and Wilson hesitated before snaking a hand beneath the covers to find House's hip. House squirmed out from under his hand but Wilson merely scooted closer and tried again. That time, House let him touch, if only because he probably knew that Wilson wouldn't just give up on it. They ended up spooned together, House's frame wrought with a sort of tension that Wilson had not encountered in him in months. It bothered him more than he cared to admit.
"House, come on. Tell me what's wrong."
It didn't seem like House would bother answering, but then a little bit of tension bled out of him. "Right now, the fact that you won't let me sleep."
Wilson folded himself closer and cinched his arm over House's waist, his face less than an inch from the back of House's neck. He couldn't help but ask, "Is this because of me, or the shooting?"
House tucked his chin closer to his chest, drawing away from Wilson without leaving his embrace. He sounded utterly dejected when he insisted, "I don't know, Wilson."
"Okay," Wilson soothed. He really didn't want to upset House any further. Instead, he pressed his lips to the soft spot at the base of House's skull and enjoined, "Just relax." He placed another chaste kiss lower on House's neck and squeezed him a bit. When House didn't protest, Wilson took that as consent. He pulled his knees up against the backs of House's legs and fit himself more snugly against House's spine, his hand migrating up to splay fingers over House's sternum. "Is this okay?"
House shifted against him, an indeterminate rustle of limbs between bedding, and Wilson felt him sort of shrug. That was noncommittal at best, but Wilson went back to gently kissing the back of his neck, his hand inscribing slow circles over House's heart. After a minute or so, House interlaced their fingers, perhaps just to still Wilson's hand. Then House craned his neck back to catch a glimpse of Wilson's face in what little light filtered in from the illuminated bathroom down the hall. He blinked in the darkness, a flicker of eyelashes over two pinpoints of reflected light, then grumbled, "Sorry."
Wilson smiled, though he didn't feel it. "Nothing to apologize for."
A grunt answered that and House went back to just laying there, facing the wall.
Wilson breathed in graduations, inhaling the scent of freshly washed hair that had not quite dried yet. House tugged his hand free a second later and Wilson tightened his arm over House's chest, anticipating a bid for distance; he didn't want to let go.
House gave an indulgent sigh and stayed put, so Wilson resumed his gentle caress of House's chest. He could tell that House wasn't entirely comfortable; he held himself too still, too rigid. Wilson tried not to let his heart sink at the thought that House didn't want Wilson to touch him – that maybe when Wilson had struck him in the kitchen, he had done more lasting harm than he'd realized.
It was stupid, the prickles that started to clog Wilson's nose. He breathed through his mouth in a deliberate, slow rhythm and willed his recalcitrant brain to leave him be. He was indulging in self pity, and it was pathetic. If something were wrong with House, the stress of the shooting had more likely caused it than Wilson's erratic floundering. He felt House shiver at the rush of cool air against the back of his neck, and just to distract him before he suspected that Wilson was emoting behind him, he moved his hand down to flatten over House's stomach, pulling him in. House squirmed a little and then covered Wilson's fingers, guiding them lower.
That was all the invitation Wilson needed. He drew in a quick breath and ran his mouth up the side of House's neck, with tongue this time. House released his fingers and reached back to find Wilson's hip, and Wilson struggled to prop himself up on his elbow to get a better angle. He cupped House's groin and found a nascent erection there, so he began rubbing in tiny circles. All the while, he kept his lips moving, tongue dancing along House's carotid, and House subtly angled his pelvis to press against Wilson's hand.
House ran his fingers over the jut of Wilson's hip bone and then raised his arm over his head. At first, Wilson thought that House was going to reach for his hair, perhaps to pull Wilson's face closer so that he could reach Wilson's lips with his own. House didn't, though; he dragged his pillow down and then curled both arms around it. This puzzled Wilson, but since House made a point of shoving his ass against Wilson's groin at the same time, Wilson didn't question it. He merely followed the curve of House's spine to keep their bodies pressed together and intensified the motions of his hand between House's legs.
House shuddered and then mashed his face into the pillow to muffle a low moan, so Wilson shoved his hand into House's sleep pants and grasped his heated cock. That elicited something like a choked mmph, and House gave a full-body twitch as Wilson set up a laconic rhythm, massaging more than stroking in the absence of sufficient lubrication. He rolled House's foreskin up, and then teased it for a few moments before fisting him again.
House wriggled back against him some more in what felt like a deliberate manner, and Wilson finally felt his own blood flow shift southward. It surprised him; until that moment, he hadn't quite noticed his own unresponsiveness. House must have, which explained why he kept rubbing his ass back against Wilson with such insistence. Wilson huffed out a humid breath, stirring the hair at the back of House's head, and ground his pelvis forward so that House could feel the answering hint of hardness. There wasn't much.
"Wilson?"
Wilson chose a patch of skin on House's shoulder to milk before he answered, "Hm?" While he suckled, Wilson rocked gently against him, holding House's cock in his left hand, his torso folded over House's flank.
"You don't…" House shuddered when Wilson's roving index finger found his perineum, then rushed to say, "You don't have to."
"Mm. Don't have to what?" Wilson rolled House's balls over his fingers and then lightly pinched the excess skin that encased them.
"Ghihn." House flopped his face into to the pillow and fought to hold still as Wilson tugged a little at his scrotal sac. Into the pillow House replied, "You're not into this." He angled himself just enough to brush his backside over Wilson's groin, to draw unwanted attention there.
Wilson left off playing with him and hugged him tightly to his chest instead. It was true, Wilson wasn't really in the game for once, though he couldn't imagine why this would fail to turn him on. As an afterthought, he tossed out, "Maybe it's the meds." Side effects of antidepressants could include impotence, and he was now on almost double the dose he had previously taken. Wilson turned his face in against House's neck and absently mouthed at his shoulder. "Sorry."
House grunted and then shoved Wilson off so that he could roll onto his back. "Well, this is awkward."
Wilson grimaced in the dark where no one could see it. Up until now, if they had ever stopped due to lack of participation from one party's member, it was never Wilson's. The role reversal disturbed him. Wilson arranged himself on his own side of the bed, then scowled at ceiling and rolled back over to drape an arm across House's midsection.
House readjusted himself, one big squirming mass of discomfiture, and then groused, "Could you not do that?"
Wilson's mind stopped for a moment, and then he snapped, "Sorry." He untangled himself and rolled away to his own side of the bed. A few minutes passed and Wilson counted out drips from the bathtub faucet. He made a mental note to call a plumber and get that fixed; it was driving him nuts. And the prickles were back. He'd need a Sudafed soon at this rate.
Suddenly, House heaved out a sigh and jostled the bed in reaching for the lamp on his nightstand. He clicked it on and then practically threw himself into a sitting position, glaring at Wilson the whole time. "What is it?" he demanded.
Wilson squinted in the unexpected light and peered up at House's irritated countenance. Instead of saying anything constructive, Wilson looked away and then fumbled his way out from under the covers. "I'll sleep on the couch."
He made it all the way to the door before House stopped him with an indignant, "Hey. I'm talking to you."
Wilson paused, on hand on the jamb, and then slumped against the doorframe. "You need to sleep. I need to sleep. It's not a big deal."
The exasperation came out in House's voice, very little of it fond. "Don't be such a god damn martyr, Wilson. Just lay down and quit moping. I can hear you being a dope."
Wilson slouched lower and then pushed off the doorjamb, but he didn't go anywhere. He tossed a searching look at the hallway ceiling and then leaned back against the doorway to gaze at House. "You don't want me to touch you." He left out the unless we're going to have sex clause. "I can't sleep in here and not touch you." He didn't mean for it to sound like an accusation, but it sort of was.
House dropped his eyes and then his gaze shifted off to one side. He picked at his fingers and then mumbled, "Bed's cold. Come back."
Even though he wanted nothing else, Wilson shook his head. "I can't even begin to understand what's going through your head, but you obviously want your space."
"I want you in my bed," House insisted. He shot Wilson an angry glance, daring him to contradict that. Then he relented and his gaze fell away again. "You know I don't do that cuddling shit."
"Yeah," Wilson agreed, watching House pick at imaginary fuzzies on the section of bedspread covering his knees. "Physical contact without physical gain just isn't your thing, right? There has to be an ulterior motive for the touching."
"Yeah, well, spooning does lead to forking." House made an abrupt face and then grimaced at his dresser. "You make me sound like a freak." He shrugged, irritated and self-conscious. "So I'm not clingy. Big deal."
"Oh, you're clingy," Wilson countered with a sarcastic snort. "Just in the metaphorical sense."
House frowned as if he wanted to respond, but nothing made it past his lips aside from a weary sigh. Then he leaned over his lap to work a hand at the back of his neck.
Wilson started to see his own nervous tick acted out in front of him. It stopped him from saying anything more biting, and he sucked a lip in to worry between his teeth before reluctantly making his way back into bed. House waited long enough to be sure he would stay there, then stretched to turn the lamp off. Afterimages danced in front of Wilson's eyes and he settled on his back on the edge of the bed like they were strangers.
After a little while, Wilson heard House turn over again, putting his back to Wilson just like he originally had. Then House mumbled, "It's gonna be the slow death, then."
Wilson stopped breathing for a moment and then lumbered up on his elbows, strangely urgent in the shadows. He couldn't see House's face at all from this angle, but the filtered light coming in from the bathroom edged the long curve of House's body lumped beneath the covers. Wilson breathed, "What?"
"This." House lifted a hand long enough to point between them and then let it plop down on the mattress again. "Slow death by trauma-induced awkward silence." He shrugged. "It happens. Something shitty goes down, one person changes while the other doesn't, then things get weird and it all just…dies."
For lack of anything better, Wilson snapped, "Don't be morose." It was something House might say, although House's retort would probably sting more just by virtue of delivery via his voice.
"I'm not morose," House argued. He spoke as if he thought this were perfectly obvious. "Just saying. There are patterns."
Wilson pressed his lips together in exasperation just to deny the fear that House may be right. Things were weird and silent, and Wilson had changed in some ineffable fashion while House remained his same fucked-up self, just with different baggage. "What patterns?" He couldn't not ask.
House remained silent for almost a minute, and then he replied, "Stacy."
Wilson flared his nostrils to cover up his angry huff. "Can't you just, for one minute, draw your comparisons from a relationship not involving Stacy?" He turned his head to glare at House even though House couldn't see it. "You have to have had at least one romantic involvement in your life that didn't end in unmitigated disaster. Can't you compare us to one of those?"
The sheets rustled, pulling the fabric taut over Wilson's calves, and then House snapped back, "Not all of us collect romantic involvements like baseball cards."
Wilson blinked, and then sucked in a breath. "Oh my god." He struggled to shove the blankets off and then climbed over to sit with his hip pressed against the small of House's back, bracing himself by leaning his palm in front of House's stomach. Now, he could see House's face, and House flicked a shuttered gaze up at him without turning his head more than an inch from the pillow. Wilson stated, "You can't be serious."
House took a second to look baffled, and then he burrowed into his pillow as if he intended to ignore the conversation and go to sleep.
The ploy didn't work; Wilson merely kept on talking. "You're telling me that you have no other comparisons?" He waited a moment, but of course, House declined to answer. "Stacy was your only other serious relationship?" He paused again, then added an incredulous, "Ever?"
"Go to hell, Wilson."
"But… I could understand high school, maybe. Marine base, moving around all the time, no chance to really settle in with someone, but college? Med school?" Wilson leaned farther over him in a transparent bid to catch his eye; House turned farther into the pillow. "I know you had sex with Cuddy at Michigan."
"I had lots of sex," House griped. "It's not hard to get." He glared at Wilson from one eye long enough to add, "As you well know." Then he stuffed half his face into the pillow again.
Wilson only rolled his eyes at that because by now, it was a conditioned response. "House, come on."
"Nobody wants a relationship with me," House sniped, his voice muffled and distorted by the pillow. "Most people don't even want a conversation with me. This surprises you, why?"
Wilson grinned because for some reason, that made him feel special, being one of only two people in that category.
"Crap," House grumbled. "You're getting sentimental, aren't you."
"It doesn't have to be a slow death, House." Wilson felt him tense, something that only he might ever notice, and added, "It doesn't have to die at all."
House griped something into the pillow, probably an obscenity.
Wilson shook his head fondly. "You're an idiot."
"Oh, get a life," House grumbled.
Instead of engaging him, Wilson stretched back out behind him. This time, House didn't try to get him off, though his frame turned still as stone wherever Wilson touched him. It was like he even managed to stop his capillaries from shuttling blood through those patches of skin. Wilson's hand traveled to House's stomach without conscious thought and House's abdominal muscles clenched for a second. For what felt like the hundredth time that evening, Wilson asked, "House, what's wrong?"
"God, Wilson, just stop already."
Wilson considered leaving off, but for once, it wasn't nosiness or oppressive concern that made him push. It was simple hurt. "Please, just talk to me." The tips of his fingers curled in against House's stomach, as if to anchor House and keep him there, as if House had always been slipping away and Wilson had only just noticed. The warmth of House's body seemed somehow colder than it should.
House wriggled to betray his discomfort, but it only made Wilson grip him tighter. Finally, House made an unhappy sound at being so hemmed in, and admitted, "I feel – " But he choked himself back to repressed silence.
Wilson tried to make his embrace encouraging, though he had doubts about whether House would respond as such. "Feel what?"
At first, House didn't move, and then he got frantic with no warning whatsoever. Wilson felt House dig his fingernails into the back of Wilson's hand, and then House scrabbled to pry it off his stomach. "Lemme go – let go!"
"House, what – " And then Wilson got it and released him, but they both ended up tangled in the bed sheets, and House barely avoided falling on his face in his haste to get out of the bed. "Jesus, calm down." Wilson tumbled his feet to the floor a moment later, watching House rebound off the door frame when his leg nearly gave out. Wilson caught him by one arm, intending only to keep him vertical, but House recoiled and lashed out, and they both ended up in a heap on the hallway floor. Wilson backed off as soon as he could, until his back hit the wall, watching helpless as House lost the battle over his stomach contents under an old hanging photograph of artistically arranged nineteenth century surgical equipment set in a sepia chromatic scheme.
Afterwards, they just sat there, separated by so short a distance that it should have amounted to nothing at all. Wilson didn't dare reach out, and it took him a while to feel the dull, warm sting on his bicep where House had grazed him with a closed fist. He had no idea when, exactly, House had managed to hit him. After a few minutes, House caught his breath sufficiently enough to sit up some, and he placed a hand over his scar in what looked like habit.
Wilson eyed him, then asked, "Are you better now?"
House nodded, for once devoid of attitude.
"How long?"
"What?" House licked his lips and then pulled a face at the lingering aftertaste of vomit. The smell of it pervaded the entire hallway but neither of them seemed to notice. Wilson, at least, was used to the odor since cancer patients often carried a faint, stale hint of it; House probably was too.
"The panic attacks. How long have you been having them?"
House shrugged. "They went away for a while."
That was probably as close as he would ever come to admitting that he'd been experiencing them for months. Hence, the Xanax; Wilson had been right after all. "No they didn't. But they got better for a while, didn't they?" No answer, so yes. "When did they come back? Like this, anyway?"
House hung his head and shook it.
Almost too quietly to hear, Wilson guessed, "Since the shooting?"
"I don't know."
For someone who prided himself on always having either an answer or a misdirection, House's insistent ignorance was either terrifying or a breakthrough. Or both. "House – "
"Please stop."
Wilson balked because he couldn't remember House ever asking for anything so meekly. "Okay," he agreed. How could he not? "I'm gonna get some towels before that dries."
It wasn't a question, but House nodded anyway and scooted back so that he wasn't looking right at the irregularly shaped puddle anymore. Wilson climbed to his feet and sidestepped to keep his distance from House, just in case. And he tried desperately not to think about or analyze what had just happened.
When he came back from the kitchen with a handful of damp paper towels and a soapy dishrag, House had stretched both legs out in front of him, his toes brushing the opposite wall. Hooded eyes tracked Wilson's progress, lingering on his feet as Wilson stepped over House's ankles and knelt to clean up the inadvertent mess all over the floor. Wilson glanced over his shoulder once to find House panting lightly and watching him like Wilson might do something to him, and then Wilson went back to scrubbing and drying the floor boards.
Wilson left House in the hall to dispose of the dirtied towels, then paused in the living room. His briefcase was sitting near the shoe mat. Inside were his pills. Wilson had the Ativan capsules with him and they were fast-acting, much better for this sort of situation than Xanax. House was currently on nothing but oxycodone, so it would be safe.
Wilson grabbed his pill bottle, read the potency on the label, and fished out two pills. Then he stowed the bottle back in his briefcase and grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen before venturing down the hallway again. House was digging his hand into his thigh by now; he was already paying for the fall, for moving the leg too fast and misplacing his weight. Whether he was sweating from the pain or the pale panic was anyone's guess at this point, but Wilson guessed the latter. He could see House shivering from an ebbing adrenaline bender.
"Here." Wilson crouched at arm's length and held out his upturned palm with the pills resting white against his flushed skin. "Ativan. It should calm you down."
House eyed the pills without lifting his head, then plucked them from Wilson's hand. Wilson held the water out as well, but House was already knocking them back dry and focusing on his leg. The fact that he took them without so much as a rude comment on the evils of psych meds came close to scaring Wilson. It meant that House couldn't control this anymore, whatever it was. It meant that House was pretty much at the end of his rope, and admitting it.
To distract himself from that, Wilson asked, "Do you need your other pills?"
"No," House replied, his voice soft and gravelly.
Wilson eyed him, then asked, "Seriously? You're not just saying that because you think it's what I want to hear?"
House turned his head, but not far enough to look at Wilson. Then he shrugged.
"Wait here," Wilson said, as if House could do anything else. He retrieved the bottle of oxy from House's nightstand and gave House one of those too, then slid down the wall beside him, though too far away to be tempted to touch. "You're almost out of these."
"They lasted all week," House bit back, but the heat in his tone came off as manufactured.
"That's not what I meant," Wilson said. He didn't even try to deny what House's silence accused him of, concerning the pill use. No matter the truth, Wilson didn't think House would believe that Wilson had only mentioned it because House would need a new script at some point, either for Vicodin or for something else. Wilson wondered when, exactly, his opinion on House's medication had led to House quietly denying himself pain relief when he obviously needed it. That wasn't like him.
They sat like that for nearly twenty minutes, Wilson looking at anything to keep his mind off House, and House fixated on his leg. It was hard for Wilson to just sit there and listen to House exhale unpleasant noises from the back of his throat while his hands alternated between soothing and hectic over his mutilated leg muscles, but Wilson didn't want a repeat performance of the mad scramble to get away from him. He also didn't want to talk about it any more than House for once.
Eventually, House stopped moving and Wilson heard him slump back against the wall. He risked asking, "Better now?"
House nodded and rasped, "Yeah." His voice sounded like he'd run his larynx through a paper shredder.
"Bed?"
House nodded again but made no move to stand.
"I'll get your cane." For the second time, Wilson climbed unsteadily to his feet and edged around House to get back into the bedroom. He hooked his fingers around House's cane and took it out to him, then stood back. "I can sleep on the couch."
"No." House leaned to his right and got his good leg under him, then hesitated before holding a hand up to Wilson.
To his credit, Wilson met House's careful gaze and didn't react other than to grasp House's hand and then his elbow, and haul him to his feet. Then Wilson let go and stepped away. "You sure?"
"I'm fine now." House wouldn't look at him as he hobbled past and ducked into the darkened bedroom, quick enough that Wilson didn't get a chance to see his expression before the gloom overtook it. But the way he carried himself…Wilson had never seen him look so drained.
To himself, Wilson said, "Okay." This time, when he crawled into bed, he stayed on his own side, though it killed him to leave House so alone right next to him.
About an hour later, Wilson was distracting himself by counting out even breaths. He didn't mean to simulate sleep on purpose; he was more concerned with trying to bore himself into a stupor. House apparently took it for sleep, though, because after whispering Wilson's name to make sure he got no response, he snuck across the bed and laid his hand on Wilson's stomach.
* * *
--TBC
Please R&R! It lets me know if I eff up the plot!