AN: Look at me, writing House fic again after all these years! I was recently revisiting the show and House and Wilson's beautiful friendship and just had to write about them. I miss them! Drop me a review if you enjoy this story and let me know.
I'll Be Seeing You
It's New Year's Eve, and they're in Minneapolis, holed up in their suite on the eleventh floor of a high-end hotel. They've just come back from dinner at the ground floor restaurant, where they had to pay an exorbitant amount of money for the pre-designed meal of the night: lobster tails and crab cakes and a side salad and warm bread in a basket and lemon sorbet for dessert. They sprung for a bottle of white wine and finished the meal with coffee. It was delicious from beginning to end, and now, all Wilson really wants to do is get into bed and watch the Times Square broadcast until the ball drops.
But House has other plans. Plans he had to spend a couple of hours convincing Wilson to sign off on earlier today.
"This is ridiculous," Wilson says, shaking his head a little. He's sitting on the foot of the bed with his bow tie undone around his neck. He watches House limp back toward him from their motel room door.
Some anonymous person Wilson didn't get up to see just dropped off House's order.
House isn't using his cane—the leg's been better lately—and he's got a small plastic baggie in his hand. He grins at Wilson as he reaches the small dining table where the testing kit waits.
"Trust me," he says, with a twinkle in his blue eye. "You won't regret it."
He puts all his weight on his good leg as he shakes one small crystal out of the baggie onto a paper plate. When buying MDMA, get the crystal form instead of the pressed pills, he told Wilson. Much less chance of contamination with the crystal.
As if Wilson will ever need that advice in the future.
Wilson watches him, bouncing his knee a little. He's sitting at the foot of his bed, fingers laced between his legs. He's wearing the one and only tuxedo he's owned for the last several years, which he bought after getting rid of the one he wore to his third and final wedding. House insisted they get dressed up for the night, and Wilson wonders if he's been planning this the last six months or more because House was the one who convinced him to keep the tux when Wilson was packing for their life on the road.
House runs the drug test and smiles bright once it's done. "We're in business."
Wilson rolls his eyes and rubs his forehead. He shouldn't have agreed to this. It's crazy. He's absolutely going to regret it. The fact he's got terminal cancer isn't going to change that.
House fetches a couple of water bottles out of their mini fridge and brings them, along with the sachet, to Wilson. The younger man takes one of the water bottles and waits as House slides all the crystals into his palm, divides them in half, and drops Wilson's portion into the water bottle. House then dumps his own crystals into his water bottle and swirls the water around. He looks way too gleeful for Wilson's comfort.
"Let's get this party started," House says, then starts to drink.
Wilson sighs and follows House's lead, the two of them downing their water until the plastic bottles are empty.
"If I have a bad trip, I'm going to be pissed at you for at least a month," Wilson warns.
"In about half an hour, you're going to think I'm god's gift to mankind," says House, standing before Wilson in his own tuxedo. "This stuff is pure, and I'll be here to talk you out of the jitters. You won't have a bad trip."
Wilson isn't convinced. "You already think you're god's gift to mankind, so even if I end up agreeing with you in my state of intoxication, I'm not going to tell you."
House is smirking like the Cheshire cat, unbearably smug and self-satisfied. "Says the guy who's never done X."
He turns his back on Wilson and makes his way to the glass wall of their room overlooking the city. The lights of the skyline and the cars on the street below glitter in the dark. He stands there alone, looking through the window. Wilson stares at him, unsure what headspace House is truly in. Wilson should've been dead or obviously dying by now, but his health has remained stable. He had a scan a few weeks ago, and the results showed the tumor still confined to the fatty issue encapsulating the thymus. He was more surprised based on his lack of treatment since leaving Princeton than because of the general prognosis for Stage 2 thymoma.
House—who has grown more and more careful with Wilson over time, who'd started looking at Wilson like he was afraid to stop—was elated. He decided they not only had to celebrate Christmas, Wilson's Judaism be damned, but New Year's Eve too.
"It's not too late to get a hooker," House says, his back still to Wilson. "How many guys have not one but two threesomes in a year?"
"I'll pass," Wilson replies.
"I'd get a hooker for myself if I wasn't with you." House turns around and starts making his way back across the room.
"Hey, don't let me spoil your night. Get the hooker if you want. You just can't screw her here."
Not here, in the king bed House and Wilson are both sleeping in.
"What kind of heartless jackass do you think I am?" says House, standing a few paces from Wilson. "Leave my best friend alone on New Year's Eve while he's facing a rad molly trip for the first time?"
Wilson just gives him a look that says: I think you're the jackass I've always known you to be.
House doesn't bat an eye. He's got a mild smile on his face. This is the happiest Wilson's seen him in weeks, maybe even since long before Wilson got diagnosed. It's weird, in a good way.
"How about a cigar?" House says.
"You have cigars?"
House limps to the minibar, opens the cabinet, and pulls out a wooden cigar box that Wilson didn't know was there. He tucks one cigar into his mouth and lights it, puffs on it once, then returns to Wilson with another cigar in hand. Wilson inspects it before putting it in his mouth and lighting it with House's expensive lighter.
"Nice," Wilson says, as the smell of the tobacco blooms in the air around them.
House pulls one of the chairs out from the table and swings it around to face Wilson and their king-sized bed. He sinks down into the chair, knees spread wide, and checks his watch.
They smoke in silence for a few minutes, looking at each other.
"How cool would it be if we did this again next year?" House says casually.
"House," Wilson warns. He doesn't want his best friend to get his hopes up, only to have them crushed.
"Just saying."
"I don't want to think about the future. I want to enjoy the present."
"Fine by me."
House slouches low in the chair and tilts his head back, blowing smoke at the ceiling.
Wilson blinks at him and puffs on his cigar, the rich smell of the tobacco filling the room. He's been watching House more attentively as their time on the road has passed, as if Wilson is the one who will be left behind and wants to commit House to memory for that reason.
If House has been watching him more obsessively than before, Wilson hasn't noticed. But he sees, sometimes, House looking at him as if Wilson is the only thing on earth still worth looking at. It makes Wilson feel guilty for having a terminal illness. And isn't that just like him?
House shuts his eyes and exhales a stream of smoke. "Got any resolutions?" he says.
"Just the one," Wilson replies.
House cracks one eye open at the other man.
"To live as much and as well as I can."
House shuts the eye again. "Don't go turning into a clichéd, inspirational lesson on mortality. It's boring. You're better than that."
"Am I?"
"Yes."
"I'm only getting high with you, against my better judgment, because I'm dying," says Wilson. "If I was healthy, I would've said no."
"If you were healthy, I'd probably be in Atlantic City right now with two hookers and god knows what kind of drugs. Without you."
"Sorry I robbed you of that meaningful experience." Wilson sucks on his cigar again.
"I didn't say I'm disappointed," House tells him, turning his head to look right at Wilson.
Wilson holds his gaze for a loaded moment, then stands up and wanders over to the window. He's in his socks, no shoes. He can feel House's eyes on his back as he moves away from the other man, feels them settling on him as Wilson comes to a stop.
"You remember last New Year's Eve?" Wilson says, staring past his reflection in the window at the cold, windswept city.
"I remember how forgettable it was," House replies. "You and me drinking champagne at my place, no inebriated women in sight."
"We had takeout from that great little Italian place in Kingston."
"Mercato."
"God." Wilson shuts his eyes and remembers the food. "So good."
"Very good."
Wilson's quiet for a minute, House along with him.
"I didn't have any resolutions for this year," Wilson says. "Not really. But I did…. hope…. that you and I would have a good one. After everything we'd been through, after I forgave you for Cuddy and prison, I just—I thought we deserved a break. I wanted us to have a good year. One, good year."
"Did we?" House says.
Wilson peers over his shoulder at House, smiles softly, and nods. "One of our better years. But also hard."
"Life is hard. That goes without saying."
House is leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, watching Wilson intensely. He's got his cigar in the fingers of his right hand.
Wilson breaks into a toothy grin. "Jesus, I can't believe everybody back home thinks you're dead. I should feel bad for being the reason they had to lose you, but…. I don't."
House curls one corner of his mouth up. "The beautiful thing about dying is it gives people like you permission to finally be the selfish bastards they really are."
Wilson smiles tenderly at House and shakes his head. "I can't believe you really gave up everything…. for me. Just to be here with me."
"It wasn't hard," House says.
"You're crazy. You do crazy shit…. I know that. But this…. Nobody would…."
Wilson falls silent, looking across the room into House's piercing blue eyes.
House stands up, staring at him relentlessly. "No," he says. "Nobody else would. Just like nobody else would've put up with me all these years."
Suddenly, Wilson's hit with a rush of pleasure that spreads through his whole body in seconds. He sucks in a breath and says, "Oh."
House grins. "Right on schedule," he says.
"Oh, House." Wilson blinks a few times and holds his hand against his heart, feeling it race. "What do I do?"
"Enjoy it, my friend." House starts limping toward the dresser next to the TV, where he's set up his iPod and speakers that he carries around everywhere they go, now that they have a car.
Music starts to fill the suite, and Wilson laughs, high in a way he's never been. Deliciously, indescribably high. Still clear-minded but overcome with a bliss he doesn't think he's ever felt before. His pulse is fast, but it doesn't scare him. He remembers the advice House gave him earlier in the day and beelines for the mini-fridge to get another water bottle. He starts to drink it, then takes off his tuxedo jacket and loosens the first few buttons on his shirt.
House purrs as the ecstasy finally hits him and follows Wilson's lead, grabbing more water and taking off his jacket and tie.
Wilson's trembling a little, and he can't stop smiling wide. "Shit, this feels amazing."
"Told you," says House, a dreamy look on his face. He empties his water bottle and chucks it somewhere in the general direction of the wastebasket.
Wilson sits on the bed again, overwhelmed by the high. He tries to take a deep, steady breath. He's rubbing his palms on his thighs.
House comes up to him and says, "May I have this dance?" He holds his hand out to Wilson.
Wilson can't help but crack into another open-mouthed smile, glancing from House's hand to House's face. If he were sober, he'd probably say no and make some sardonic quip meant to relieve the homophobic anxiety in the back of his mind that he's too old and too open-minded to entertain. But right now, all he wants to do is dance, and he's too full of soaring jubilance to care about anything else.
He takes House's hand, and House pulls him up and draws him close, snaking one arm around Wilson's waist and holding Wilson's hand up in his own, fingers laced together. House leads, and Wilson's only clumsy for the first few steps, then instinctively falls into the rhythm House sets. They dance through two songs at a moderate pace, House pushing them around the open space between the window and the beds, Wilson on the verge of laughing the whole time. When House spins Wilson out and dips him, Wilson finally does laugh, his head thrown back. House pulls him up again, a luminous smile on his face, and they stand there beaming at each other through the last twenty seconds of the song.
The next track is a slow one, Julie London's "Cry Me a River," and as it opens, their smiles die down, the mood shifting. Wilson thinks House will either turn the music off now or at least let him go—but instead, House just steps in closer and starts to sway back and forth. Wilson follows his lead again because he doesn't want to break their touch. House slides his chin onto Wilson's shoulder, resting his head against Wilson's, and Wilson shuts his eyes, tipping his chin into House's shoulder.
He can smell House's cologne, something clean that reminds Wilson of the ocean. House rarely wears cologne—Wilson has grown familiar with the scent of his friend's skin from sleeping in the same bed with him—but this one's nice. It makes Wilson think of all those comments House has made since they left New Jersey, about running away to Costa Rica together. Now, Wilson thinks, why not? Why shouldn't I die in Costa Rica? It's beautiful there. Just like this.
"Gregory House slow dancing with me on New Year's Eve," Wilson says softly. "Nobody would believe it if I told them."
"I'm just trying to get into your pants," House replies.
The corners of Wilson's mouth twitch, and he lets the joke pass unanswered.
The song fades out, and Wilson opens his eyes, the lights in the room now haloed, everything rosy. He feels as blissful as he's ever felt, and he refuses to believe it's just the drug. This love, this sense of safety, this deep gratitude for House…. He's felt it all before, many times throughout their friendship. The drug isn't manufacturing his feelings, only enhancing them.
The two men start to peel apart just a little but keep their grip on each other. Wilson looks deep into House's eyes with an intensity and vulnerability he's never offered before, and House looks back, just as open, just as intense. The wave of emotion crests in Wilson, and his eyes prickle with tears.
"House," he says, his voice a thin whisper. And the emotion is so great, he's not sure he can speak to it. "I love you."
That familiar, gentle expression unique to House surfaces on the older man's face. "I love you too," he says quietly. "More than anything."
Wilson smiles at him as bright joy bursts in his chest.
House smiles back just a little.
Then, Wilson does something he's never done before and probably never would've done without the molly. He leans in and presses his lips to House's, holding the kiss for a long beat. Love washes over him, powerful and all-consuming. His skin tingles, and every point of touch between him and House burns with light and warmth. He has never felt love so completely and deeply in his life.
When he pulls back from the kiss to check House's expression, he finds the other man still subdued, those blue eyes full of emotion.
"As good as sex on X feels, we would probably regret it in the morning," House says.
Wilson breaks into a toothy grin. "I don't want to have sex with you. I just wanted to kiss you. Because—because—"
"Because you're rolling balls right now. So am I." House caresses the hair back from Wilson's face, then kisses him.
Wilson leans more of his weight against House and shuts his eyes, tears spilling down his face. "House," he breathes into the space between their lips as the kiss ends.
House kisses him again, cradling Wilson's head in his hand. Then, he presses his forehead to Wilson's, and they rest in that pose. Wilson slides his hand up House's chest and presses it to House's heart.
"I wish this could last forever," House says, like it's a secret he's ashamed of. "I wish we had forever."
"God, me too," Wilson replies, his voice breaking and a hint of grief materializing through all the love and bliss coursing through him. "Me too."
They don't know how much time passes before they finally come apart, but when they do, it's just to drink in the sight of each other's face again, as if tonight is their last one together.
"I'm glad it's you," Wilson says. "Here with me. I wouldn't trade you for anybody else."
"Not even Jennifer Aniston circa the Brad Pitt years?" House says.
Not even Amber?, he means.
Wilson just presses his lips into an indulgent smile, eyes still watery. "Not for anybody, House."
House gives him a slight nod.
Wilson steps in and curls his arms loosely around House, wanting only to be close to him as he marinates in the molly high. House puts his arms around Wilson in turn, and they stand there for a while, embracing. The love coursing through Wilson's body almost makes him feel as if he's floating out of it. He is happy and relaxed and not afraid at all. It occurs to him how perfect it would be if he died right here, in House's arms, feeling like this.
"Wilson," House says eventually.
"Yeah?" says Wilson.
"Will you marry me?"
Wilson pulls away from House just enough to see his face, which is as sincere as it's been for this whole conversation. "What?"
House just peers at him. "Will you marry me?" he says again.
Wilson is no longer sure if what he's experiencing is real. "Seriously?" he says.
"Seriously."
House reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a little a velvet sachet. He shows Wilson the pair of rose gold rings inside and waits for the younger man to say something.
Wilson just stares at him in awe, at a total loss for words. "You're—you're dead," he says.
"Well, pretty soon, you will be too. So I don't see the problem."
"I mean, you can't legally marry anybody as yourself."
"I don't care if we never sign the contract," House says. "All you gotta do is say yes and take the ring."
Wilson looks back down at the rings in House's hand.
"It's just a cheesy way of promising we're in this for the long haul," House explains.
Wilson's eyes well with tears again, which he wasn't prepared for. Hell, he wasn't prepared for any of this. He wasn't prepared to get cancer in his forties either. But here he is.
He looks back up at House, feeling like a teenage girl who needs to go have a breakdown in the bathroom, and just nods.
House smiles. He takes Wilson's left hand in both of his and says, "James Wilson, do you agree to be my partner in crime for the rest of your life?"
"You know I do," Wilson says.
House slips one of the rings onto Wilson's finger. It fits just right. The color and the glint of it on Wilson's finger is the most gorgeous thing Wilson has ever seen.
House looks into Wilson's eyes again and tells him, "You're the best friend I ever had, and I'm going to take care of you until the end. Okay?"
Wilson starts to cry in earnest now and nods.
House slips the second ring onto his own finger, and Wilson grabs him in a fierce hug. House hugs him back, hands flat on Wilson's back.
On the TV, the throng of people in Times Square start counting down to midnight.
"FIVE, FOUR, THREE, TWO, ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!"
The ball drops, and "Auld Lang Syne" starts playing on the broadcast. The faint sound of people honking their car horns in the street ten floors below them reaches their ears. House and Wilson break their hug and look at each other again.
"Happy New Year, Wilson," House says, as happy as Wilson has ever seen him.
Wilson smiles. "Happy New Year, House."
House grabs the back of Wilson's head in his hand and presses a kiss to his forehead, his other arm still around his friend.
Wilson kisses House on the cheek in return.
They finally look out the window at the night sky and the city lights, each with a hand on the other.
"Wanna go see if we can pick up a couple of drunk, lonely women at the bar downstairs?" House says.
Wilson chuckles. "No," he says.
"Damn. What do you want to do instead?"
"I want to get out of these clothes and get into bed."
"I'm telling you, if we have sex for the first time on MDMA, doing it again sober will be disappointing."
"Shut up, House."
They change into pajamas, turn off the lights, and slip into bed. House lies on his back, holding Wilson to him with one arm, and Wilson curls against his side, arm around House's waist. House rubs Wilson's arm up and down and keeps his other hand on Wilson's elbow. He's quiet in that Housian way of his: thinking loudly.
All Wilson can think is how glad he is—how lucky—that he's not alone. That he has someone who truly loves him, flaws and all. Of all the people he's ever known, House is the only one Wilson has ever been able to reveal himself to completely. The only one he didn't have to impress. The only one he could be selfish and honest with, unapologetically. He will always be grateful to House for that freedom, for the experience of being seen and accepted.
Maybe this wasn't the happily ever after Wilson dreamed about as a young man or even as a grown man, and maybe the rest of the world would feel sorry for him if they knew he was going to reach the end of his life single and childless, with only Greg House for company.
But Wilson wouldn't change a thing about this ending, even if he could.
"We're having champagne for breakfast," House says, his voice rumbling under Wilson's ear.
"Okay," says Wilson, already starting to doze off. He's not sure if he'll be able to fall asleep while he's still high, but he can't think of anything he'd rather do now than cuddle with House.
"Christ, I love you." House's voice is fragile and breathy when he says it. Wilson can almost hear the threat of tears in it. "And I miss you."
"I'm right here."
"I know."
They drift in the waters of ecstasy, forgetting the past and the future and death. The darkness of the room is now only broken by the glittering lights outside the window. They don't know how long they lie awake or notice when they finally fall asleep.
In the morning, they do have champagne with breakfast. Wilson feels strange and worn out but lighter somehow. He's not hungry, but he eats everything House ordered and drinks the champagne. He and House share a silence thick with the memory of everything they said and felt last night. It almost feels like they did have sex, but rolling with House was more emotionally gratifying and loving than just about all the sex Wilson's had in his life.
The rings are still on their fingers. They never took them off.
"Where to next?" Wilson says, as House eats the last of his food.
"I'm thinking the Southwest. Phoenix, maybe. I'm tired of freezing my ass off."
Wilson nods and dabs at his mouth his napkin.
House gets up out of his seat and grabs the bottle of champagne by the neck, obviously intending to polish it off. "Better start packing. Check out's at eleven."
He starts to turn away, but Wilson stands up and says, "House."
The older man stops and looks back at Wilson.
Wilson just looks at him for a second, feeling like he needs to do something or say something to prevent last night from getting lost.
House waits for him, eyes vibrantly blue and clear as the truth.
Wilson moves around the table to him, lifts his hand to caress the side of House's face, and says, "I love you."
He has to tell him sober. He's not sure why he hasn't done so more often in the past, but he's going to tell him all the time from now on.
House just gives the slightest nod against Wilson's palm, looking at him.
Wilson leans in and presses a soft kiss to House's lips. "We don't have to be intoxicated for that either. It's nice."
"Okay," House says.
Wilson drops his hand, and instead of leaving, House hooks one arm around him and pulls him close. "I love you, Wilson," he whispers.
Wilson just holds onto him, eyes closed, smiling into House shoulder.