House lies in bed, staring at a ceiling obscured by blackness. Wilson is beside him, washed away in a Tylenol-PM induced ocean of sleep. The bathroom door hadn't been shut completely, and House watches as the younger man gets ready for bed. House is amused at Wilson's slightly narcissistic rituals, until he sees the man peer into the mirror with a gaze that is more than dark in color. Wilson stares at his reflection, gazes into the depths of his own eyes—looking for something, finding nothing. The gaze is broken only by the rattling of pills, when the russet irises are pulled down to measure a dose. Wilson counts out five pills and dry-swallows them with a gesture eerily similar to House's own. He turns the tap on and stuck his head under, letting a small stream coat his mouth to wash away the dry taste. House begins to call out, to tell Wilson the dose is too high—but he stopped himself. Who is he to lecture anyone about taking the correct dose? So he keeps quiet, lets Wilson look him in the eye, lets the younger man's tongue massage his own briefly, without asking why. But he looks into the brown eyes as they break away from an embrace that sends chills down his body because it feels so right and wonders if there's more to Wilson than he'll ever know.
Now he watches as the drug begins to take effect. The younger man fell quiet after about twenty minutes; his muscles relax visibly, taking on a loose elasticity that is displayed when he gets up to go the bathroom one last time. His steps are somewhat erratic, almost as if he were tipsy. But nothing is said, so he turns back to the bed and gets in unceremoniously, all sharp angles and elbows. The eyes that shine with compassion and unwanted sympathy during the day take on a glassy sheen; they move lazily until they close, unable to remain open.
"Wilson?"
"Mm?" The response comes from the back of Wilson's throat; his leg jerks quickly and his breathing deepens.
"I don't usually give thanks when they're due. But you deserve mine."
Wilson smiles. He murmurs a soft 'yeah,' as the chemicals force his body to surrender—to give in to an overpowering sleep.
House has had joy in his life. He had had days where that may just have been perfect. Before the infarction, he smiled (when it suited him). He had someone who loved him—someone to hold and kiss and be with. He had made love as a whole man; he brought God to her lips as they finished together, breathless and careless (because who expects what was to happen?) He had been a real person then, a man who could walk and run and fling his sinewy strong limbs wherever he wanted.
He had lived forty-one years before joy was taken away from him. They weren't all good or bad, but while he aged through them, he had the ability to feel like a person—at full capacity, with every fiber of his being. Then, in a sequence of four days that played over in his mind like a nightmare come to life, his joy way taken away.
Nothing could bring back the ability to walk through life as if he were invincible. There were no blithe actions in his ravaged body. Nothing was left but the devastating reminder that he was a reduced version of himself—a man to be pitied, not desired. Not even Wilson could lift the emasculated feeling that had hooked its claws into House's spoiled flesh so resiliently.
But he had brought House up from the depth of a normalcy that would be anyone else's despair. He had fought his way in and made it known he wouldn't be chased away, and this permanence, this promise of enduring love and passion worked its way into House's blood, running an unfamiliar feeling through him (he feels joy).
House ponders the timing of his salvation. He has love for someone else—and can feel this without trying to distance himself from the recipient of his affection (within reason—House is House). He's also the target of a cop bent on taking him down—a man obsessed with teaching House a lesson (so similar, but couldn't be more different). The days align themselves in front of House. They beckon him to walk forward, to let time ripple through him and look upon the outcome of events he set in motion—events that have the ability to break him, take away his ability, his defining characteristic (his soul, if he believed he had one). As he lays there in the darkness, feeling the presence of someone he cares for so close by (but so close to being snatched away), he decides what to do. He's not satisfied but has closure; his body allows itself to relax. It releases his mind from its cage and House is free, gone to a place where pain can't touch him for a few hours. A place where the colors are their vibrant, not the darkened hues of his pain-soaked world. As House drifts, his mind finds itself wistful; wishes it could stay away forever.
The next day creeps up slowly; it warms the windows with bleak winter light. Wilson is up far earlier than he; House feels him as he heads toward the bathroom to begin the day, but keeps his eyes closed and his breaths even. Wilson's loud morning rituals continue for an hour or so, until the oncologist returns to the bedroom, apparently finished. Wilson sits on the bed lightly, runs his hands up and down House's arm and whispers for him to get up. House parts his already wakeful eyes and Wilson blooms into view, framed by the just-noticeable shadows of his own long eyelashes.
"Hey," Wilson whispers, as all who wake others do, inexplicably (to break the fall into consciousness).
"Hey," House says in his normal tone. The depth of his unused vocal cords break the gentle stillness of the morning. His arms press into the bed and he pushes himself into a sitting position, even with Wilson's eyes. Before the younger man can react, House is kissing him.
"Morning breath," Wilson tries to say, but the words are obscured by House's hands and mouth. House is in his mouth, tastes the spearmint of his own toothpaste. His eyes open; he needs to look at Wilson, to see while he tastes and touches. When his azure gaze is reciprocated, House knows his lover feels the same way. His long fingers tap a melody onto Wilson's cheek and neck; the younger man is his piano and he plays as best he can. Wilson is pulled into House and his cool skin heats as a blush spreads across his pale cheeks.
"Shy?" House breathes into him, feeling the flush under his hands. Wilson answers by twisting so he's on top of House, pressing close, kissing hard.
When they both catch their breath and Wilson's clothes are in a gloriously wrinkled pile on the floor, House grudgingly admits that it is time to get up. He rises slowly and uncaps the Vicodin that sits on the nightstand, guarding him from pain as a dog would from intruders. He raises the bottle to his mouth and slides two down his throat. Wilson pretends he doesn't watch. House turns back to Wilson and sees a suit hanging up on the bathroom door.
"Why is—" But he stops; Wilson's eyes plead him to just put the clothes on.
"You put in your plea today. Please."
House decides not to answer, lets his actions to the talking. His shirt comes off first, then his pants. He stands naked in front of Wilson and moves towards the clothes, sliding a hand across the younger man's boxers on his way. Dark eyes squeeze shut and air is sucked in involuntarily.
"God, House." Wilson rolls his eyes and his hands go towards House's neck, where a tie is being unsuccessfully knotted.
The day moves slowly for Wilson when House is away. He had only two patients, both of who are lucky enough to receive normal, healthy biopsy results. He sits in his office, waiting, while time speeds up and slows, toying with his mind. Twice he sits up quickly, thinking he hears that unmistakable step-thump of House's gait—but each time proves to be a phantom spasm of his hearing synapses. He has things to do—charts to sign, surgical notes to read, but his mind wanders every times words cross the threshold from his eyes to his mind. Is House ok? What's he doing right now? How could a cop be so relentless to strike a man down—a doctor? What's he going to do? What am i I /i going to do if he goes to prison?
Wilson's reverie is broken by a flash of black and blue that limps past his door. He's out of his seat instantly—at the door a second later. He runs after House, stopping only at the elevator, which the older man seems so keen to ride.
"What happened? What are you doing?"
House turns, looks at him. The blue eyes gaze back coolly. "I'm checking myself into rehab," He says, then steps into the elevator. The doors begin to close, when a hand reaches out and pulls Wilson into the threshold, right in the way of the doors. The audience in the hall watch, agape (especially Cameron) as House places a kiss on Wilson's lips, soft and quick, and then pushes the man from the elevator.
Wilson presses his fingers to his lips and wonders if House's had been there at all.