Wilson likes Tylenol PM. It blurs time, makes the hours go by quicker. It puts him in a trance, lets him slip into a dreamless slumber (lets him run away from his problems). He's careful with it; only uses (abuses) it when he's desperate. It's Monday now; Sunday his blood ran thick with the drug.
He's at his desk, sipping black coffee. He doesn't particularly like it, but it counteracts the muscle relaxation and drowsiness. He'd started drinking coffee in high school, when he got his first car. That was what you did; a styraphome cup (along with keys clipped to your waistband by a carabineer) in your hand meant you were independent. Adult.
The bitter liquid sears Wilson's tongue and burns his throat and he remembers why he doesn't drink it in the first place. It's early, barely seven, and he sits alone in an empty wing. Wilson reaches the stairs before he knows he's moving. He knows he'll regret it, but he has to see House. He can't wait for the elevator; it takes too long, it makes his stomach clench in expectation. He climbs the stairs and knows he's actually moving; he's in control of his ascent to House. He moves faster, taking the stairs by two (are they multiplying? The number seems too great; he feels he'll be walking forever). But then the end greets him and he pulls the door open. He's breathing a little fast and takes a few deep breaths to settle his heart (that's jumped into overdrive for House, not because of the exercise). He stands on the opposite wing of the hospital, a corridor away from the rehab clinic; his steps are quick. He has to get there.
House waits for him. He sits, his back facing the glass wall. When the air in the room is forced out in a gust by the opening door, he stirs.
"You're predictable."
"So are you."
Wilson sits next to House. His body aches for the other's but he resists his urge. He waits for House, wants to be touched first. He doesn't wait long. House's shoulder presses into his and the older man is leaning on Wilson, letting him support his bodyweight. Wilson's head is on House's shoulder and he's whispering into the soft cotton of the older man's sweater everything he's felt in the past few days. He's sorry, he's tired, he's lonely. He's drugging himself into sleep. He goes on, until three words he never means to say slip out. And they rest there, sliding through the air, moving into House's ear. Synapses fire neurons and they're moved to House's brain, where the information is decoded and processed. And now House looks at Wilson, searching his eyes.
"I'm sorry," Wilson whispers. He can't do this today; House's trial is in hours and he's unloading these feelings. They can only cause trouble; Wilson thinks they'll weigh down an already condemned man.
"I…..you." House's telegraphic speech is ok, because Wilson understands. He relaxes into House and feels no trembling. The hand within his own doesn't shake. He says nothing but feels hope for the first time in what feels like years. He knows he's aged somehow; outwardly he's the same as ever, but inside he feels different. Divorce didn't take this much from him; he had been sidetracked before by guilt, sadness, regret, but even that didn't touch this feeling, this need to cling onto the scraps of pleasure and companionship (and he wants to say those words again, but he doesn't). So he stays with House, cancels his appointments and holds on for dear life.
The time is here; House is being called and Wilson gets up to go with him, but he's stopped.
"Please, stay here. I can't have you—you'll be—just stay." Wilson is pleading, begging for House to think again, to change his mind. But he doesn't and he's leaving. Cuddy appears in front of the glass walls (prison) and House moves toward the doors (away). He turns and his eyes are so blue they make all others look cheap, flat. And before Wilson can say anything, tell him it'll be alright (though his stomach tells him otherwise) House's lips meet his. Bodies entwine for moments (eternity), then separate. Wilson's mouth feels empty and he breathes and swallows the remnants (the taste) of House that cling to him. House's heat is still on him as he watches the man walk away.
Wilson is on the roof. The sun has come up and it's bright, belying the cool winter morning that swathes the word in a blue chill (a state of mind that seeps into the bones; where everything is cold and warmth is a fond memory that's not quite real). The city is underneath him and he looks on as its king. An icy wind makes him pull his jacket closer and he thinks of the day he fell in love with House.
It is a Thursday. Wilson is outside a patient's room (not his), waiting for House. The door is left slightly open, but the hall is empty except for him and he can barely hear the conversation as it is, until House begins to yell.
"Yes! I want you to scream, to cry, to tell me that your life means something, because I don't know."
Wilson moves away from the door because the tap-thump of House is moving closer to him, but then it's interrupted. He breathes out stale air he doesn't realize he's holding.
"I don't want to die." The feminine voice is barely a whisper, but Wilson catches it.
"Ok."
Then he really does move, because House is coming his way. He ducks into exam room three, interrupting Dr. Montgomery examining her patient's throat. He apologizes profusely, said he was called down for a consult, then fakes befuddlement about a room mix-up.
He's on his balcony looking at nothing when House appears next to him. The clouds move aside, let the sun through for a moment and then they're illuminated. The glass reflects the light and Wilson looks at House, sees his eyes. They're intensified; every shade of blue (and gold and grey and white and black) is highlighted and he's transfixed because House is changed.
"I heard your conversation with that woman." Wilson says (tries to be nonchalant. Fails).
"And?" House says. (He can play nonchalant.) His eyes pry. Without saying a word, he asks how much Wilson knows, if the younger man will take away his patient's chance at a new heart.
"House," he says, then smiles wolfishly, "You've gone soft." House smiles; he knows Wilson won't say anything.
"Yeah." He walks away, his cane silent on the concrete. Wilson is left alone with his thoughts and a thanks echoes out to him. He's not smiling anymore. Instead, he tries to figure out the logistics of his new feelings. The ring on his finger absorbs the sunlight, burns him, and he twists it absently. The sun is hot now and he's looking at it, wondering why it chose today to reveal love. The gold in his eyes is bright. Its source leaves trails down his face, which he wipes away as he returns to his office. The darkness blinds him when he enters.
Wilson pulls the bottle that will put him to sleep out of his pocket and swallows numbly. He stays there on the roof and prays to a god he doesn't believe in.
"Over thirty bottles were found in the apartment, along with two vials of morphine."
Tritter sits on the stand, looking at House as he gives his testimony. House looks back, but his gaze is drawn to his pocket as it buzzes. He wonders why briefly, as he has no patients. The phone is flipped open.
"What?"
"House, is Wilson there with you?" Cameron's vice (concerned) emanates from the receiver.
"No, he's at the hospital."
"Well, his car's here. I paged him for a consult in the clinic, but he won't answer. He' not in his office or yours, or the oncology lounge. I've even tried his home and cell."
"I'll be right there." House gets up.
"Where do you think you're going?" The Judge is annoyed. This is her arena.
"Emergency. Patient. I have to take this, before my license is revoked, that is." And then he's gone, breezing by the Judge's threats of contempt. He's at the hospital quicker than he should be, but Cuddy's Mercedes handles well and he tells himself to thank her when he returns the keys he palmed as they got out of the car before the trial.
His office is deserted except for Cameron, who seems to be waiting for him.
"You've checked everywhere?" He says by way of greeting.
"Of course. He wasn't anywhere in the hospital."
"He wouldn't be, would he?" And House knows where he is. He's in the hall before Cameron can reply. Elevator doors close as she follows into the hall. House is in the enclosed space, willing the pulleys to speed up, to get there sooner. He's pressed the top floor and is ready to give hell to anyone who's too lazy to take the stairs. But then the doors stop and he's climbing the stairs to the room. His leg aches immediately but he's not stopping. Then he's outside and immediately finds what he's after.
Wilson is there, sitting near the edge of the roof. He's slumped over but his breath is visible in smoky wisps. House gets closer and sees that Wilson's mouth is slightly blue. He's shaking Wilson, calling his name. He's not waking up right away so House is lifting his hand, then brings it down swiftly. It's like a hand hitting water; it makes a sharp sound that echoes through the stillness.
"Ow." Wilson is peering through half-closed eyes at House, who's shaking with adrenaline.
"You stupid asshole." He's on Wilson's chest; his fingers are on the pulse in Wilson's neck. It's strong. "What were you doing?"
"I don't know, I came up here and just….fell asleep."
"There are better places to do that."
"I know. I'm sorr—"
"Just come on."
"Where?"
"You're coming to watch me go to jail."
They move together. Wilson is shivering but he doesn't have frostbite. They move down the floors and House finds a way to warm the younger man up. They break apart when they hit the ground floor, but House pulls Wilson by his jacket sleeve until they're in the parking lot. He leads Wilson to Cuddy's car, where he's assured the Mercedes was loaned willingly. They sit in the car for a few minutes with the heat on high.
"Ever got it on in a car?" House looks out the window as he says this; he could be asking for the car.
"No."
"First time for everything."
Wilson moves closer to House, moves his head until they're facing each other. House is clean-shaven; Wilson hasn't seen him this way since before the infarction. He rubs his cheek against House's and feels the smooth skin glide across his own. His lips meet the older man's, then continue down his jaw. House lifts his chin, sighs a little, and Wilson can see him as a little boy, sleepy and satisfied. But then House draws breath in and there's nothing child-like about the gasp. It's an expression of pleasure in the purest form (because words can never really express pleasure; it's only in exclamations, physical jerks, eyes rolling back, breathing, that it means anything). House is breathing his name, but he's mumbling James, not Wilson. He can't remember House ever using his real name and he kissing the neck underneath his lips, trying to make physical the emotions he feels. Hands move around his own neck; fingertips run along his jaw line, up his cheeks, into his hair, massage his hair. He wants nothing more than to continue, but he pulls away from the embrace, only to meet House's eyes. They all but order him back, but he refuses, saying they can't christen Cuddy's car.
House is annoyed.
"Last chance." He says, eyes on Wilson, daring him to deny it.
"It's not." Wilson says, praying his voice is more confident than his mind. He orders House to get back to court. House starts the car, and they drive in silence to what feels like the end of the world.