Poison and Wine

Chapter 2

"Want a beer?" House limped into the kitchen as Wilson dragged his suitcases inside, closing the door behind him.

"Don't think I should."

"Ah. Right. Wouldn't want to marinate an already cancerous liver in alcohol." House returned to the living room with another beer for himself. "Metastatic, you said?" he continued casually.

"Subtlety never was your strong suit," Wilson smirked.

House ignored him. "You hungry? I ordered Chinese. With my own credit card, no less."

"Impressive." Wilson shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down at the floor, still standing behind the couch. "House – "

"Don't," House interrupted. Five years apart and he could still read Wilson's mind the way he could look at an x-ray and know in an instant what was wrong. Shit.

"Look, it's been a long time – "

"Do you not know the meaning of the word 'Don't'"? Dictionary's on the shelf."

Wilson opened his mouth as if to argue, but changed his mind. "Well," he said instead, clearing his throat, "it was nice of you to let me stay."

"No choice. Go put your stuff in the bedroom," he added quickly, before Wilson could respond. "It's taking up precious space."

"The bedroom?" Wilson frowned. "But there's only – "

"Cancer beats crippled leg," House explained breezily, waving him away. "And seriously, you don't want to know what's gone down on this couch. Hurry up…food's getting cold."

They ate in silence, pretending to watch a hockey game rerun on low volume. Without letting his eyes stray too noticeably from the television screen, House glanced over and took in the ever boyish features that had once made the nurses swoon, and that now made him want to vomit at the thought of cancerous tumors leaving nothing familiar behind of Wilson but vulnerability.

Without his even realizing it, his hand moved to his propped-up leg, massaging the area where his mangled flesh lay hidden beneath his jeans.

"I guess it never goes away," Wilson said quietly.

"Yes, please be all cryptic in the way you broach the subject of pain." House grimaced, withdrawing his hand almost self-consciously. "As if I don't have enough puzzles to solve in my life."

Wilson nodded towards the Vicodin bottle in his other hand. "Still?" he asked.

"On and off," House shrugged. "Okay, mostly on. Detoxing is too much of a bitch, and one stay in the nuthouse was enough." He snorted as Wilson's eyebrows shot up. "Don't act all surprised that the pills eventually fucked up my brain."

"What happened?"

"I hallucinated hot, steamy sex with Cuddy," House replied matter-of-factly. "Came true about a year later, though."

Wilson choked on his dumplings. "You mean…you and Cuddy…?"

"Yep. Except then I went back on the pills because I thought she was dying, and then she dumped my high, sorry ass, and then I crashed my car into her house. But, you know, we're good now. Strictly professional."

Wilson stared at him for a while. "I guess I've been gone a long time," he said finally.

They continued to watch the game in silence, until House turned to look at him again. "You're not playing fair," he accused.

"Hmm?"

"I told you everything that's happened in the past five years, and you've told me nothing."

"House, brushing over psychiatric stays and a relationship with Cuddy hardly qualifies as telling me everything." Wilson sighed, meeting his gaze. "Anyway, there isn't much to tell."

"Says the man who's spent the last five years in Vegas and LA, and came back sans girlfriend. There's always something to tell."

"Not tonight," Wilson said. He stood and began to collect the now-empty takeout boxes. "Shouldn't you be going to bed soon? Or do you still make it a habit to show up two hours late to work?"

"I'm not going to work."

Wilson glanced down at him disapprovingly. "Don't play hooky on my account."

"I'm not. I'm taking a leave of absence."

"What? House – "

"Don't bother. It's already done."

Wilson's arms hung limp at his sides, and for a moment House imagined the way his hands would have rested on his hips had he not been carrying the remains of their dinner. "House, I never wanted you to turn your whole life around just for – "

"Just for my dying ex-best friend?" House popped the lid on his Vicodin bottle and shook a few pills into his hand. "Those tumors aren't going anywhere, you know."

"I'm an oncologist. I think I know that."

"Were an oncologist. Running off for five years just makes you a fugitive."

Wilson's head dipped into an almost imperceptible nod. He sat back down onto the couch, the takeout boxes still in his hands. "I didn't call you so that you could take care of me," he said.

"Right. You just lost all your money in some Vegas casino and couldn't afford a hotel."

"I never wanted to inconvenience you. I just thought…well, I thought that maybe it would be nice to see you again. But if you'd rather I checked into a hotel – "

"Forget it. You and Cuddy already think I'm enough of an ass."

"You crashed your car into her house, and you still care what Cuddy thinks?"

"No."

Wilson paused. "You stopped answering my calls, and you still care what I think?"

There was another pause, and then House was poking Wilson's leg with his cane. "Go to bed," he said. "I can't sleep if you're still in here."

"You did have a choice. You didn't have to let me stay with you."

"I'm tired." He waved his hand to dismiss Wilson into the bedroom. "But I expect a full account of your nomadic travels tomorrow."

"House, you're just deflect– "

"Goodnight, Wilson."

With a heavy, defeated sigh, Wilson stood from the couch, dumping the takeout boxes into the kitchen garbage before heading to the bedroom. "Goodnight, House."

TBC