A/N: The song is 'Miss Misery,' by Elliott Smith. Enjoy, and please review!
"I don't think we have anything to talk about." Wilson's voice was a pretty strong imitation of normal. No wavering, no stuttering. But House was like a bloodhound that had just caught a fox's scent. There was no going back now.
"Wilson," House's voice almost growled for his attention. "You're flushed. Since it's December, you're either feeling those pesky side effects of menopause, or you're embarrassed. And, for some reason, your jacket went from the floor to your lap—maybe—"
"Fine," Wilson's thin voice replied, heavy with resignation. Humiliation pressed down on him, quickening his pulse and deepening his flushed cheeks. "But not here. Let's go to your apartment."
The sound of the engine turning over signaled House's acquiescence, for which Wilson was grateful. He shifted in his seat, turning as far away from House as he could. The cool window supported him, bringing down the heat in his face. The scenery rushing past caught his attention, but House's profile could still be seen out of the corner of his eye. Wilson sighed silently and let his eyelids fall. They felt gummy, grainy, as if the winter wind had kicked sand into their delicate folds. Ignoring his physical discomfort, Wilson turned his thoughts on the situation at hand. What was he going to do?
Such an idiot. His inner voice snarled, turning against him. You're ruining everything, just like you always do. You really are worthless.
The car turned a sharp 90 degrees and slowed down. If Wilson opened his eyes, they would be greeted by House's apartment. A minute passed, and neither man had taken off their seatbelt—let alone made a move to exit the awkward confines of the car.
"Come on." House commanded, reaching into the backseat for his cane. He got up rigidly, still in pain from his lack of adequate sleeping conditions. Wilson waited a beat, watched as House disappeared into the building before getting out of his car. The door to House's apartment was open; Wilson paused in the door frame, listening. A dull thump sounded—House dropping his bag and jacket. Light shuffling, an uneven gate headed away, further into the apartment.
Wilson slid into the apartment quietly, trying not to make a sound. It was like a game of hunter and hunted; each man tried to stay removed, to abstractly gauge the position of the other. But in this game, who was the hunter?
House isn't homophobic, Wilson mused, because homophobia is ignorance. And if House is anything, he's not ignorant. But he hates to be vulnerable. Wait. If he's vulnerable about this, defensive about what happened, does that mean he's hiding something? Wilson's mind was reeling. What had seemed like a humiliation—something he would never be able to live down, had become a situation of prospects; of potential. He was standing on the edge of a precipice with his back pressed against a wall; he could take no steps back, but the idea of forward momentum left him dumb with panic. He could lose his friend if he chose to move forward; the same scenario could occur if he stayed static, stagnant.
House came from the kitchen then, two glasses half-filled with amber liquid balanced in his left hand.
"Help me fake it through the day with some help from Johnny Walker red." House said grimly, handing Wilson a glass.
"What?" House speaking in code did nothing for Wilson's frazzled nerves.
"Nothing. Drink." With that, House's head jerked back; the move was old, familiar—so akin to his Vicodin throw down. Wilson paused for a moment, questioning his friend's motives before following suit; the alcohol tingled, warming his stomach.
It sure beat the vodka.
Is he getting me buzzed on purpose? House would have known Wilson hadn't eaten. Was this a way to lubricate the situation?
"Hair of the dog," Wilson coughed when he realized House was staring at him expectantly.
"Lightweight." House leaned his cane against the wall and limped to the couch. The heavy leather audibly relaxed under his weight, and he motioned for Wilson to join him.
"So, Wilson. Do I need to start going to Glaad meetings?"
The blood that was lazily pulsing warmth through Wilson's body paused for a moment.
Fuck.
Realizing its error, the heart that had been stilled by House's direct words beat twice as fast, leaving Wilson dizzy with intoxication and unease.
"I—I don't know what to say to you." He sat on the love seat directly opposite House, though he didn't feel its support. His mind told him he was still standing, the room was spinning wildly on its access, pushing blood to his brain and leaving him breathless. "I've never…done that with a man before."
"Fine. Then answer me this. Was it a drunken mistake? Or was it something else we need to deal with?"
Wilson couldn't breathe; the air wasn't coming in fast enough. His hands scratched at his collar, loosening the knot of his tie, but it didn't help. Carbon dioxide began to build up in his blood; consciousness was abandoning its hold on him.
Hands were suddenly on him, on his face and under his back, pulling him up from the precarious edge of the couch; he didn't know he'd fallen. The hand on his back joined the other on his face, and dimly, he heard House saying something. It sounded like an apology, but why—
The synapses in Wilson's face fired white-hot as House's calloused had connected with his cheek. The hyperventilation ceased immediately. House's tactics, though sometimes brutal, were usually spot-on. Wilson tried to vocalize his pain, but was silenced.
By House's lips.
The man's kiss was the antithesis of his personality; where House was all sharp angles and abstract calculations, his mouth was warm and wet and soft. It was slow—not like the quick tic of House's mind; it took its time coaxing the responses it desired.
And respond Wilson did.
For once, his over-anxious, dramatic monologue was shut down. He was overpowered by his need to kiss House, to get closer to a man who had, just a short time ago, been a friend. And a bad one, at that. Wilson pulled away for a moment, shyly gazing down into his lap. His mouth ached a little; House's scruff had left his lips and chin chapped. He was marked.
"You ok?" Wilson's gaze finally met the deep blue stare of his friend, and what he saw scared him. House looked at him hungrily—lust was practically spelled out in those azure irises.
"I—I'm sorry. I can't; I don't know what—what came over—I have to go," Wilson stumbled over his words as he rose. He had to leave. Had to get away. Away, away, away. Away from House, away from his ex-wives. Away from love. For Wilson, all relationships ended with him alone. And maybe that was how it was supposed to be.
Like a newborn colt, Wilson's legs shook as he grabbed his keys from the end table and fled the apartment. In his haste, he had forgotten his jacket; he was forced to brave the winter cold with nothing but a long-sleeve shirt.
"Shit," he whispered, unlocking his car. He climbed in and started the Volvo, not waiting to turn on the heat as he sped away from House's apartment. He drove, not caring where he was going, until he approached a park. The car seemed to pull over on its own, and he sat, watching his breath escape him in wispy clouds. His mind raced with the events of the past few days. What was happening? Where had his life gone? One minute he was a married, straight man; the next he was a divorcee making out with his best friend.
I must be some kind of masochist.
Wilson sat in the car for twenty minutes before he realized he hadn't turned the heat on. The air began to relax his clenched muscles—all but his stomach, which seemed to contract harder with the influx of warmth. Oh, God; Wilson opened the door just in time for the arrival of regurgitated whiskey and stomach acid to hit the cold ground, where it began to freeze immediately. He spat out the acrid taste, promising himself he'd never drink again. When, after a few moments, it seemed like his stomach had given up, Wilson pulled himself back into the car. He moved his seat back a little and turned on the radio, which greeted him with a sad, sweet melody.
I'll fake it through the day
with some help
from Johnny Walker red
Send the poisoned rain down the drain
to put bad thoughts in my head
The song sounded familiar, but Wilson couldn't place it. He sat silently, listening to this song of regret, and let his confusion wash over him.
Next door TVs flashing blue
frames on the wall
It's a comedy of errors, you see;
it's about taking a fall
to vanish into oblivion
it's easy to do
and I try to be
but you know me I come back when you want me to
Do you miss me--Miss Misery--
like you say you do?
The song ended, and Wilson was left with a single thought.
What the fuck am I doing?