Poison and Wine

Chapter 7

They took turns in the bath, House quietly leaving the bed first as soon as Wilson woke. He didn't need the inevitable talking just yet, and even watching Wilson sleep had been an unwelcome reminder of what the upcoming weeks would bring.

The bed was made when he returned, the blankets straightened and the pillows fluffed and the bottle of lube evidently stored away in its drawer. As Wilson bathed, House changed into his pajamas and stretched out across the comforter, casually resting his hands behind his head. The smell of his shampoo and soap trailed behind Wilson, who had only a towel wrapped around his waist as re-entered the bedroom.

House smirked from the bed. "I think we're past the point of decency here."

Wilson rolled his eyes, but he smiled and didn't bother to cover himself up as he pulled his own pajamas out from his suitcase in the corner. When he was ready, he sat tentatively on the edge of the bed, holding House's gaze.

"So," he said.

"So."

Wilson cleared his throat, running a hand through his still-damp hair. "We should probably…talk."

"Or we could go for round two," House suggested. Wilson glared at him and he sighed, pushing himself into a sitting position against the pillows. "So talk."

Wilson inched closer to sit across from him. "Last night was…it was great, House. Really, really great."

"Really, really, really great," House agreed. He watched as Wilson's finger began to trace the scar along his leg, not completely surprised when he eventually pulled away.

"But we can't."

He didn't have to be a world-renowned diagnostician to know why, but he wasn't ready to give up on Wilson just yet. Not this time. "Don't be such a drama queen."

Wilson shook his head. "I think I've hurt you enough," he murmured, and House frowned.

"That's my line, not yours."

"I left you." The pain in Wilson's eyes was making House's leg burn, and he gripped the sheets to avoid reaching for the Vicodin bottle on the nightstand. "I thought Amber was my only shot, and after all you did for her – for me – I left you. And I'm going to leave again, House, and this time I won't be coming back."

House nodded. "I know."

"We shouldn't have done this. I shouldn't have pushed you."

"Hey," House countered. "You think I didn't want to? You didn't push me. Twenty-five years of waiting pushed me." He dipped his head a little, forcing Wilson to hold his gaze. "You're seriously going to tell me that you wish last night hadn't happened?"

"Of course not. But – "

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. You're dying."

"Well, that's the point, isn't it?"

"No, it isn't. The point is that if you leave now, it won't be because you didn't have a choice."

Wilson paused, and House assumed he was considering this last statement when suddenly Wilson was leaning in to kiss him.

"Jesus," he muttered, eyes wide as they finally pulled away. "If I'd known you were this good, there's no way I would've let you get away with twenty-five years."

Wilson smirked, but his expression grew serious. "I need you to be sure about this, House."

"Sorry. I might need you to kiss me again before I make any big decisions."

"I mean it. Things might be good for now, but a few weeks down the road, they won't be."

House refused to flinch. "I know. And I'm sure."

Relieved, Wilson scooted closer as House patted the empty space beside him on the bed. "Can you imagine if it had just been you after Sam?" he murmured, lying back into the pillows and turning onto his side to face House. "No Bonnie, no Julie…no Amber."

"Don't forget about that dying cancer chick…wow, that's ironic."

"We would've had twenty-five years." Wilson grimaced, and House eyed him worriedly.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. I just…it always should've been you."

House reverted his gaze back to the opposite wall. "We were both idiots."

"Amber made me feel closer to you."

"Your Amber was my Cuddy."

Wilson furrowed his brow, trying to understand. "You thought…she was like me?"

"No," House replied quietly. "She just made me think of you when you were gone."

Wilson let his eyes drift to House's hand on his thigh. Careful not to disturb the bed too much, he reached across his shoulder to grab the Vicodin bottle from the nightstand.

House glanced over and shook his head. "No."

"You need it. You've gotta be in pain."

"I said no."

"Just one isn't going to make you an addict," Wilson tried, but at the lack of amusement in House's eyes, he took his hand and emptied a few pills into his palm. "No one said you had to detox on my account," he said gently. "It doesn't mean you don't care."

House didn't respond, and Wilson returned the bottle to its place, out of sight. "I don't want you to feel bad about the Vicodin, House."

"You used to give me hell for being an addict. Now it turns you on?"

"You know I hope you'll find it in yourself to get clean again one day. But I'm certainly not going to dump you for it now."

House's eyes darkened at the memory. "I needed it for Cuddy," he said stiffly. "I don't need it for you."

"Needing it just to be there for her wasn't the same as needing it for your normal, physical pain," Wilson reminded him patiently. "I think Cuddy knew that."

"Yeah." House continued to stare at the pills, but at length he emptied them into his mouth and gulped them down, finally relaxing his grip on his thigh.

"Better?" Wilson asked.

House nodded, and Wilson pushed himself up with a smile. "Good. Now come on – I know you're hungry."

They drove to a diner for breakfast, ordering oatmeal for Wilson and pancakes with all the trimmings for House. At about 10:30am, they'd missed the morning bustle before work but were too early for the lunchtime crowd, and their booth in the back corner provided a comfortable level of privacy.

House poured syrup onto everything on his plate and dug his fork into his food. "No hospice," he said firmly, not bothering with usual conversation openers.

Wilson shrugged, knowing better than to be surprised by House's bluntness. "It might be easier if – "

"I said no hospice," House repeated, painfully swallowing a large triple-stacked bite of pancakes. "We can get a nurse, but you're not going anywhere."

Wilson smiled a little, gingerly pouring a small helping of honey into his bowl. "I'm sure Nurse Jeffrey would be up for it. Is he still around?"

"God, Wilson. If you wanted to have a threesome, at least pick someone hot like Chase."

"How is your team doing, by the way?"

"Hell if I know."

Wilson shook his head with a smirk. "If you don't call Foreman, Cuddy's going to barge in again."

"And we may or may not be clothed."

"Exactly."

"Which she might actually enjoy," House mused.

Wilson ignored him, taking a bite of his breakfast. "Are you going to tell her?"

"About what?"

"About…me. About us."

"That you're dying and we're fucking? Probably not."

"She'll have to know at some point. About the first part, anyway."

House shrugged. "What about your parents?"

"What about them?"

"You said you wanted to see them."

"That was when I was…you know."

"Trying not to be swayed by my irresistible charm? Yeah. But you could still see them. If you want."

Wilson nodded. "I think that might be nice."

"Could call Stacy, too. Get a will drawn up, the works."

"You're really harping on this death thing, aren't you?"

House shrugged, swirling his last piece of bacon in a stray pool of maple syrup. "You're the one who goes into panic mode when you're not prepared. Just thinking of you here."

"House, this is all very…thoughtful of you. But we'll get to all of that, okay? Can we just eat our breakfast in peace and enjoy ourselves?"

"Speak for yourself," House retorted, nodding towards Wilson's nearly-full bowl.

"I ate," Wilson replied lamely.

"Blue ass."

"Yellow ass," Wilson corrected him playfully, and House fought back a smile.

"Don't be such a jerk."

"Speak for yourself," Wilson shrugged, shoveling a steaming spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth. "And don't even think about stealing any of this, either."

TBC