James slept badly that night. It took a sneaky refill from House's bottle for him to drop off, and even then he only slept fitfully. At some point, he woke to sounds of running water and knew that House had just finished a bath. So the other man couldn't sleep either. He turned over and tried to go back to sleep but had no luck.
It was chilly in the apartment. Reluctantly, he peeled off the extra blanket he'd dug out of the bedroom closet earlier and ventured into the kitchen. At home, he would have made chamomile tea to help him sleep but there was no tea here. House abhorred the stuff, and they'd already tried alcohol. More would only make him suffer in the morning. He smiled to himself when he remembered making House a hot chocolate earlier that day. Calories be damned, some cocoa was what he needed.
While he waited for the milk to heat, he wondered if House wasn't sleeping because he was in pain or if there was more to it. He was a private man. In the past, House had accused him more than once of putting up a facade, of hiding behind a persona. If he really was honest with himself for once, deep down, James knew House was right. But today, after so many years of friendship, he had been allowed a small glimpse behind House's facade. A facade he hadn't even known to be one, or not to this extent. That made today's discovery especially disconcerting because James knew him longer and better than most. But even he'd had no idea of what was really going on. And he probably still didn't know everything, as House hadn't actually volunteered any extra information; he had only shared what he had been pressured to reveal.
James took the mug of cocoa back to his nest on the couch and wrapped himself in the throw he had discarded earlier. He had seen the meds House was taking, or had at hand at least, and that arsenal in itself was enough to worry him. But more disturbing was the fact that House seemed to have resigned himself to an existence he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy–or at least not without a good deal of provocation.
He stared at the embers of the fire as he sipped his cocoa. It would be pleasant to add another log and warm up the room a bit–far nicer than just adjusting the thermostat. But it would mean more cleanup later, and a likely reprimand from House for using up his supply of firewood . . . James went still as unwelcome comprehension flooded his tired mind. He hated it when mundane thoughts led to unwelcome insights. "Shit," he muttered, and set his mug on the coffee table. His hands were shaking a bit, he noted absently. It wasn't from the chill in the room, either. He had lost five patients so far this year, and with the last one only last night, seeing House in a situation similar to some of his own late-stage patients just hit too close to home.
House woke to the smell of pine. He opened one eye reluctantly and squinted at the clock–three a.m., more or less, about half an hour after he'd last checked the time. The hot bath earlier had lowered his pain levels somewhat, but he still couldn't get any proper sleep.
As he limped down the hall a few minutes later, he saw light flicker in the living room. So, someone had given in to the urge to use up firewood because it offered both warmth and an illusory cheer. It seemed he wasn't the only one who couldn't settle into sleep.
His approach certainly wasn't quiet; sneaking around was not his forte, and especially not tonight. But when he reached the end of the hall Wilson didn't acknowledge him, so he stopped in the doorway for a moment to observe his friend.
Catching Wilson unawares was a rare treat. The fact that he didn't notice House spoke volumes. The lights were off, and the fire cast everything in a dramatic glow. Despite the pensive look on Wilson's face, the scene was beautiful - the flames reflected on the piano's sides added warmth to the room and made it feel almost homely. He should light a fire more often. If only it wasn't for the literal pain of having to clean up the next day.
The fire even added radiance to Wilson's otherwise melancholy look. His hands wrapped around a mug, the slightly hunched shoulders under the throw - House unexpectedly felt a little tug deep inside his chest.
"Is there any of that cocoa left," he asked as he limped into the room. There was no response. "Wilson." He raised his voice a bit and watched the other man startle out of his reverie.
"House… I… no. I only made some for myself. Didn't know you were up." Wilson looked like he'd just woken up from a dream. "Want me to make you one?"
"Throw in a shot of Booker's while you're at it." He made for the couch and eased down into it with a soft groan.
"Okay." Wilson hesitated, then rose and padded into the kitchen. House leaned back and stared at the fire, aware his feet were cold. He should have grabbed a pair of socks along the way, but it was too much effort to get up and find some now; if he was really desperate he could steal the blanket Wilson had used. Instead, he dug behind him and pulled a crocheted throw around to cover his legs and feet. It was ancient, the colors faded and the yarn fuzzy, a few rows even broken in places, but it provided some warmth at least. Someone had given it to him for Christmas years ago–an aunt or cousin probably; the rest of the memory was lost, or more likely deliberately forgotten.
Wilson returned several minutes later with two steaming mugs. He gave one to House and moved to the other end of the couch. House cradled the mug in his hands, allowing the heat to take the chill off his fingers. The cocoa was good and had a healthy boost of bourbon–a surprise actually, he'd expected Wilson to add little more than a few token drops for flavoring. Someone else needed extra help too . . . good to know. Wilson's hair was standing up in places, and there were dark smudges under his eyes. He clearly hadn't got much sleep to speak of yet either.
"I'd be interested to hear how many patients you've lost this week." House kept his tone neutral. Wilson sipped his cocoa and said nothing. "Evidence suggests it was more than usual. You're not this smother-mother about rough weeks. Takeout and a couple of beers have been enough in the past."
"I don't see why it matters to you," Wilson said after a brief silence.
"It doesn't. Or at least, only as it pertains to that interrogation you attempted earlier."
"Interrogation." Wilson turned his head and gave House a level stare. "Interrogation."
House nodded. "That's the correct term."
"No, it isn't." Wilson set his mug down on the coffee table with a thump. "You really can't handle the fact that I care about you, can you? That anyone could care about someone like you. Because that's what it comes down to, in the end. You're not worth any consideration, because you're imperfect."
"So are you," House snapped.
"No shit! Have I ever said I wasn't? I'm as fucked up as anyone else. You're not special in that regard and never have been. But you've decided to use it as an excuse to lock yourself up in a fortress with twelve-foot thick walls, and anyone who tries to find out why gets cauldrons of boiling oil poured on them."
"Nice medieval imagery." House made himself take a large swallow of cocoa. "You're not above launching a flaming trebuchet or two yourself, you know."
Wilson raked a hand through his hair and glared at House. "So what? I get defensive, yeah! You–you think my work is a joke, you think I'm a–"
"No, I don't." The words slipped out before he could stop them. Silence fell, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire.
"Well, that's news to me." Wilson glanced at the fireplace. In the half-light it was possible to see he'd lost weight, the bones of his face more sharply defined. "Look–it–it comes down to this. I'm worried about you. I see you dealing with things that–that I didn't realize you were facing." He hesitated. "I'm . . . I'm sorry. I should have asked you about this a lot sooner. And I do care, dammit, whether you believe me or not. Whether you think you deserve it or not. Fuck that. If we parsed out compassion to the deserving, almost everyone would go without."
"Quite a speech," House said at last. His throat was dry, and a wave of tiredness washed through him. "So I'm worth a handful of do-gooder sympathy and a pat on the shoulder. Nice to know."
"That's–that's not what I–stop twisting my words!" Wilson thumped a fist on his thigh. "I don't pity you, House. Not at all. You . . . you said once you function despite the pain, you go to work, pay your bills, all that. And it's admirable. But I'd like to see you have . . . more."
"More of what you want, you mean." House pushed down a surge of anger. "A home, family–"
"No, because I know you–you never really wanted that, or you never thought you'd get it and gave up." Wilson sighed softly. "I want you to have more of what you want. More than just bare existence. Shutting yourself up like this is eating you alive, and you know it."
"What I want? I don't want anything. I'm perfectly fine." It was like a reflex. He didn't even try to sound convincing.
"Of course. It's more than obvious you're happy with how things have turned out." Wilson's words had a mocking edge, but underneath was some darker emotion House couldn't figure out. He fought a yawn and took another swallow of cocoa, though he didn't really want it now.
"Happy doesn't come into it. More like . . . oh, I don't know, not having to put up with everyone else's expectations and demands every waking hour of my day."
"And you think the rest of us don't want that too." Wilson shook his head, yawned and rubbed his neck. "Christ. Pay attention to the people around you once in a while. And that means not just analyzing them either."
House was unable to stop a reciprocal yawn. "Mirror neurons," he said when he saw a corner of Wilson's mouth quirk upward. "As for paying attention to the idiots in my vicinity, let's just say a walk through the ocean of their souls would barely get my toes wet."
"Of course. That lets you off the hook for any kind of social behavior, doesn't it? We're subhuman morons and you're the true modern man, rugged individualism incarnate."
"That's a bit harsh. You're not subhuman. Just not on my level. Most aren't." He leaned back as his eyes drifted shut for a moment; then they opened wide. "Son of a bitch."
Wilson gave him an inquiring look. "Something wrong?"
"You . . . you dosed me." He could feel it now, the familiar tendrils of chemically induced somnolence stealing through his brain. "Goddammit, you–you bastard–"
Wilson got to his feet, came over and gently removed the mug from House's hand. "Don't want to spill this all over." He set it on the coffee table. "Anyway, I took some too. Both of us need sleep. We won't get it sitting here."
House had no real choice about being helped down the hallway to his bed. He tried to fight having the sheets and blanket tucked around him, but gave up finally and pulled a pillow over his head. The last thing he heard was Wilson's soft chuckle, and the click of the light switch.