Wilson sits in his darkened office with a bag of House's clothes. He thinks of the trip he made during his lunch break, the gathering of assorted underwear, socks, pants and tee shirts. He feels he's intruded upon House's space, as if it's only alright to be in the apartment when House is there. But he pushes away the sense of intrusion that sits heavily in his stomach and prepares to walk two hundred feet to an elevator that will take him to see the owner of the belongings that he holds (crushes) in his lap. The odd impulse to breathe in the clean detergent smell of House's clothes (that still carries the musk of its owner) runs over him, and the red lips and tongue of the Rolling Stones logo come up to meet his nose. He stays like this for a moment before leaving, pushing his way into the hall, looking back only slightly at the office connected to his.
His feet may as well have been coated with a thick layer of concrete; his steps are slow and hesitant. He wants nothing more than to go home with House, to kiss and touch and taste, but he can't. He's stuck, forced to watch a man endure chronic, mind-numbing pain while detoxing. But he gets in the elevator; he can't do anything but veil his eyes and let his physical presence give House some sort of comfort. He's made it to the elevator. The button lights up under his outstretched fingers and he listens as the machine idly clicks, slowly making its way down to him. A melodious ding sounds its arrival and he steps in, greeted with fragrant air that feels thick; it stifles him, makes him breathe through his mouth so he doesn't drown in the scent, trying to find House among the swirling remnants left behind by overzealous perfume and cologne wearers.
He presses the correct floor and begins shaking, but takes deep breaths to try and calm down. He doesn't want to see the pain in House again; it was all he could do to bear it last time. But he can't go back now; the doors open and he's forced into the hall, where he sees House crouched with his head against the window in the Rehabilitation common room. He pauses, watching House's breaths as they're reflected on the frosty window.
Out.
A ripple flows across the glass, spreading a mist that stretches out, reaching out to touch all the corners before—
In.
The air is sucked back, pulled into its origin. The mist leaves the glass and Wilson imagines it flowing into House's mouth, coating his throat and moving into his lungs. But he knows nothing in House is that light, that free; House is trapped in his body, forced to watch everything around him move without restraint, without thought. Without hesitation. So Wilson moves this way, without hesitation, but towards House. For him. With him; with one hand he reaches out to take House, help him keep up with the current that carries everyone else gently while simultaneously pushing him to the bottom.
Wilson movies quietly, or House's thoughts wrap him in a sound barrier, but the older man jumps when his hand is stroked gently.
"Wilson." The voice is gruff, most likely from the stomach acid that coats House's larynx. The older man's eyes are encircled by dark rings; his face is scruffier than normal (Wilson knows this must itch) and is highlighted by sweat. Wilson sees that it pours off the older man; even his palms glisten. But the eyes, the eyes that are House's soul are alive as ever; they slide over Wilson's form; they gaze deep into his brown depths and the younger man is frozen in a spotlight, waiting for the search to cease.
"You ok?" Wilson asks, regaining his voice when House's eyes lower. His hand holds the older man's still; the fingers entwine as if they were built that way—as if they were pieces of a jigsaw that had finally found their fit. Wilson squeezes the clammy hand that grasps his and sits on the windowsill, near House's legs.
"Peachy," House deadpans. "If it weren't for the vomiting every fifteen minutes, agonizing pain, hot sweats, cold sweats and uncontrollable shaking, this would be like that week in Acapulco." Wilson sees House's eyes roll, watches them take on a nasty sheen, but lets it go. This is House.
Wilson leans his head back on the glass and lets it cool him; he's flushed and it feels good, like emerging from the ocean on a hot day. The cold clings to him, wrapping its icy hands around his neck. But the hand is trembling, and Wilson starts when he realizes that the cool compress wrapping itself around him is that of his lover ( he tries out the word in his mind and it fits….better than boyfriend ever would).
"I'm so sorry," He whispers, choking on tears that infiltrate his dark eyes. But he won't let them fall; he won't cry when he has no pain; when all he's done is inflict it on someone else.
"All you tried to do was help me. Every step of the way. I should've taken the deal on my own."
"But you're here now." Wilson moves then, breaches the space between the two. He's on his knees so House is leaning down over him, hands splayed across cheeks that feel feverish. House doesn't open his mouth a first, deciding instead to explore Jimmy's ample lips (his lips). He runs a cool tongue over the top curve, breathing out at the same time (and Wilson feels the cool wetness of House, and smells mint). The lower lip is nibbled on, slowly. Each crevice, each line is explored.
"Endorphins?" Wilson breathes, but is obscured by House's tongue. Its coolness invades his mouth, then slides out for a moment.
"Better than cutting myself," And the tongue is back, playing tag with his own. Wilson brings his hand up to House's hair and slides it through, wincing slightly at the sweat that covers his fingers. He's kissed harder in response; House is pulling his attention away from his vices and back to his virtues.
And his virtues are good.
"Greg House." A voice barks.
"Five more minutes, Voldemort." House says, his fingers covering Wilson's mouth. He's claiming them; they're for his use only.
"Visiting hours are over, and I need to check that bag." Wilson hands over the plastic bag with House's clothes, and stands. He pulls House along for the ride. Their mouths meet again, but it's a goodbye. Wilson turns away, gets to the door before he looks back.
"Miss me."
Wilson drives home in the cold; at this moment he wishes he drove an automatic car so he wouldn't have to put any effort into shifting. The car whines, winding out under him as he thinks of House. Stop it. There was nothing you could do. Just trying to save him. Keep him. Self preservation. House preservation. The car is high pitched now, begging him to move into a higher gear. He chants in his head, bringing his focus back to the task at hand.
Clutch in. Shift. Gas. Stop light. Brake. Clutch. Nuetral Clutch. First. Clutch. Gas. Second.
Before he realizes where he is, he's parked outside House's apartment, and he knows he's at the right place. He doesn't belong anywhere else but here; to wait for House, to keep his apartment ready (to pretend everything is alright while the world crumbles swiftly below him). Then he's in the apartment, standing static near the couch, waiting for House to pop out, to push him up against the wall and take his thoughts away. But he's alone and cold and depressed, and nothing is going to change that tonight, so he moves to the bathroom and turns the shower on. He waits until the steam obscures everything, billowing out against the cool air around him, before he undresses. His clothes stick to him, protesting a little as he shucks them away from his body. They land on the floor with a muffled thump and Wilson wishes they could be joined with a pair of blue jeans and a band tee. But wishes are wasted here, and Wilson knows this as he climbs into the scalding hot shower. He gasps at the water, then adjusts as it turns his pale skin bright red. He thinks of House in rehab, weak and humiliated, and brings his hands to his face. The image doesn't suit house; it never will. House is strong and proud and fierce; he needs to be thought of that way.
So Wilson's thoughts move to House's lips (or more precisely, what the do to his lips). He feels House's tongue, his hands, move up and down his arms, and all the warmth he's absorbing heads downwards. He feels himself stiffen; his eyes close as his hand wraps around his warm, wet length and House's eyes are on him, watching. Taking him in. His pace quickens and now it's House who's touching him, who's holding him and telling him to match his pace; to come with him. It's House's hand that pumps wildly; it's the older man's mouth that sucks and nibbles on his neck, working all the spots that make Wilson shiver in delight (House knows he's ticklish).
Then Wilson comes, and it's his own hand that has pushed him over the edge (and is now covered in his own sticky mess). It's his mind that supplied his lover, and the older man is spirited away, tucked back into memory. Wilson sits, lets the water wash over him. He lets himself feel despair for a moment, then pretends House is with him once more.
House, having finally passed out from pain, is back in his own apartment, laying next to a sleeping Wilson.
"Where are you?" The younger man asks, shifting in his sleep.
"Right here," House answers. Then he turns, moving into Wilson's heat. He closes his eyes and breathes in a scent that compliments his, that makes his whole. Then he's asleep, cradled by dreams.