BEST / WORST
These are the best of times; these are the worst of times.
It took barely two weeks for Wilson to realize that he and House were now best friends; House clearly had no other friends, and Wilson had been avoiding most other people for years.
They talked every day, usually when House called to rant about the latest round of stupidity he'd had to deal with. But he always listened when Wilson complained about his day, too, even when he clearly didn't think Wilson had it as bad.
At least once a month one of them would drive the few hours to the other's place and hang out for the weekend; they would drink, go to movies, do whatever sounded like fun at the moment. They even went to monster truck rally once, something Wilson enjoyed far more, frankly, than he'd expected.
Looking forward to House made the days go by quicker, though sometimes the wait was interminable. He's on his fourth girlfriend in as many months; he either gets too bored, or they get too tired of him spending more time with someone in the next state than with them.
One accused him of being gay; he shrugged and told her she was just upset she couldn't "convert" him, even with her obviously fake tits. That got him a slap and a fun story to tell House later - minus the gay accusation, of course.
Wilson had decided that was a topic best left untouched, unless he got what he felt was a clear message from House. He wasn't about to risk the only thing that gave him any happiness, though, so the message would pretty much have to be as obvious as House shoving his dick up Wilson's ass.
In the meantime he would try to make do with phone calls and B-movies.
BROTHER
He hasn't talked to his family in months; not since he called with the news of the divorce and his new address.
He knows that if they talk, the subject of his brother will come up, and he just can't deal with it right now.
Maybe he's a little jealous, yeah - all these years they've spent worrying about Daniel when James was dying right under their noses.
But whatever.
He thinks back on the last time he saw his brother - when the family had decided James was the best one to go bring him home. James was the level-headed one, the one who always fixed things.
Instead he and Daniel had argued for ten minutes about how easy James had always had it, what a success he was, how Mr. Med School could have no idea what his tormented brother was going through.
Wilson had returned home alone, and told the family that he couldn't find Daniel.
He thinks back on the last time he spoke to his brother - when he had hung up on him, sick of his shit, sick of his whining, sick of his inability to see beyond his own problems.
For years - years - Wilson had put up with his brother and his brother's baggage. Worried about him, helped him, tried to help him, despaired when he couldn't help him.
And eventually well he just couldn't be bothered to care anymore. He had his own baggage to haul around.
Really, how much can a person be expected to put up with, even from someone they love?
SLEEPLESS
He hasn't slept well in weeks. Between twelve-hour days at work and moving in with the girlfriend he's too apathetic to leave, it's been a rough time.
Plus he hasn't talked to House in five days; House has called several times, much to the girlfriend's annoyance, but Wilson simply hasn't had time to call back.
He tries not to be afraid that House will lose interest. It's not likely that House will find another friend very easily, but he could very well give up on Wilson out of spite.
At least House seems even less inclined to settle down with a woman than Wilson is…. He's told a few stories, and once a female voice answered the phone when Wilson called, but House has said quite clearly that he has little interest in a long-term relationship.
"Except with you, of course," he'd then added jokingly, batting his eyelashes at a short-of-breath Wilson.
The bright green numbers tell him it's two-thirty in the morning. He stares at the ceiling, trying to ignore the person next to him. There's nothing wrong with her, and she is company, but still. Hard to be enthusiastic about it anymore.
Hard to be enthusiastic about anything anymore.
…Was he ever enthusiastic about anything?
His mind has barely started down that well-worn path when the phone rings.
He scrambles for the cordless on the bedside table as she swears loudly.
"Hello?" he whispers into the receiver, stumbling out of the room and shutting the door as quietly as he can.
"Turn on Cinemax right now," House whispers.
"I don't have Cinemax anymore," Wilson says. "Why are you whispering?"
"Well fuck, that's too bad. You're missing some excellent tits," House says regretfully. "…And I didn't want to risk annoying Her Delicacy any further. But Jesus, this is the only time I felt confident you might actually be there to talk."
Wilson collapses on the sofa. "Work has been sucking pretty hard."
"Same here," House grumbles. "Do you want to complain first or should I?"
Wilson smiles. "Go ahead."
He gets maybe an hour of sleep, but Wilson feels better the next day than he has in a long time.
EXPERIMENT
He's mortified before he's even undone his belt; but ever since he found the toy in the beside drawer, he hasn't been able to get it out of his mind.
He tells himself it's not that weird a thing to do. Who doesn't masturbate with his girlfriend's dildo in order to get a better feel of what it would be like to be fucked by his best friend? It can't be as odd as it feels.
At any rate he's doing it. She has an annoying habit of always wanting to spend time with him, and this overnight stay at her parents' house is too precious an opportunity to pass up.
He sits nervously on the bed, still dressed in his work clothes. He doesn't plan on getting undressed - it's somehow less embarrassing that way. Like this is just something spontaneous and wacky, not something he's been obsessing over for weeks.
The toy isn't very big at all, certainly nowhere near the size of a human penis. But it must serve her purposes well enough, and he figures it will serve his. He just wants an idea…
He settles back as comfortably as he can and closes his eyes, trying to relax. He presses "play" in the middle of a random fantasy, and House is there, in the room. He comes over to the bed without a word and kisses Wilson, covering Wilson's body with his own; holding him down so Wilson can't breathe, speak, move, can do nothing but submit-
Wilson makes a strained noise in his throat and yanks his pants down to his knees; breathing shallowly, he liberally smears Vaseline onto the dildo. He turns just enough to reach behind himself with his left hand, his need cancelling out the embarrassment, and carefully presses the toy against himself.
He tries again to relax; the last thing he needs is treatment for a self-inflicted rectal injury. He imagines House behind him and pushes harder, involuntarily crying out when the toy enters his body.
It hurts, just a little, just enough to indicate that the real thing must really hurt. But very quickly it's a good pain, and when he dares to push further he hits his prostate and almost faints.
It's awkward - made even more so by his khakis around his knees - but he grabs himself with his other hand and jerks, hard; both of his wrists work furiously for barely a minute before he comes with a shout, his knees drawing up and his back arching.
He lies in a stupor for another minute, trying to process what just happened. Really all that happened was the best orgasm of his life, but there's so much more to it than that…
He needs to feel that, needs to feel House inside of him like that or he'll die.
But he still can't tell if House would ever go for it, and he knows he'll never be able to tell, or ask, and he knows he'll die before it ever happens.
And he knows he would never be able to let anyone else do it.
He shakily does his pants up and crawls under the covers, even though it's barely seven o'clock. He's sickened by the mixture of contentment from the orgasm and knowledge that it's only a fraction of what he could feel, but never will.
He knows how pathetic it is, but he comforts himself with another fantasy, and falls asleep in House's arms.
MOVING
There's no way this is a mistake.
He's moving to a better job, with much better pay; he's getting away from this person he's come to loathe. He'll be living minutes away from his best friend.
It's all great. Which doesn't explain why he's lying on the floor of the empty apartment, staring at an outlet, vaguely thinking of ways to electrocute himself.
The thing is - when he's this far away from House physically, it's much easier to be so far away from House emotionally.
But when he can see House literally whenever he wants…
House had offered to let Wilson stay with him until he found a good place of his own, but Wilson had balked at that and leased the first dump he looked at. He already hated it, but that would just make it easier to justify being at House's as much as he planned to.
One would think it would have made his life much easier to just move in to House's apartment instead of just planning to be there all the time, but…one would be wrong.
For reasons Wilson will and won't admit to himself, one would just be wrong, that's all.
It's better to keep that distance…. He can't even promise himself that he'll be able to maintain that distance once he's so close, but he intends to try.
He slowly gets up, determined to see the bright side of things. He's going to be able to hang out with House all the time - whenever they want, whatever they want to do. Movies, bowling, pizza and beer and bad television shows. It'll be great, really.
And he's going to try to go without female companionship for awhile…as far as a relationship goes, at least. They just end poorly for everyone.
So as long as House doesn't go all domestic on him, life just might be okay for awhile.
STACY
"Excuse me," Wilson says suddenly, jumping up from the table. He scurries to the bathroom, bumping into several wait staff on the way.
The bathroom is thankfully empty, and he flattens his palms on the countertop, willing himself to relax. He stares into the sink, counting each breath until he can form a thought.
She's … nice. He glances up into the mirror and glares at himself.
He doesn't find her particularly attractive, but she's smart, and charming, and House is laughing at her jokes.
He wants so badly to hate her, but besides the mere fact that House is infatuated with her, he can't think of a reason.
That's enough of a reason. Why can't he just hate people like House does? House hates everyone and doesn't seem the worse for wear.
Well, House hates everyone except him…
…and her.
If he had eaten more than a few bites of his meal, he would throw up.
This is stupid. Grow up. Of course he would eventually find someone.
He's got someone.
But House has never seemed to want him, not like that, and Wilson supposes his own behavior doesn't encourage the possibility. Sometimes he'll be in a mood during which he'll sleep with anything willing…and sometimes those moods last for months. And House knows it, not because Wilson tells him but because House just knows. Can sense the weird combination of guilt and satisfaction that Wilson must wear like cologne.
So good for House. Maybe she'll be good for him…or maybe it'll fizzle in a few weeks.
That's the most likely scenario, of course! Who can put up with House for more than ten minutes, anyway?
Wilson, that's who. The only who.
Feeling a bit better but unable to continue socializing, he mumbles something about his stomach before throwing some money down and making his escape.
His cell phone rings before he's even made it to his car.
"Are you okay?" House asks.
"I'm fine, I'm just getting a cold or something," he replies lamely.
"Good….So what do you think?"
Fuck! Can't you just care about me for once? "She's nice."
He can hear House chewing on his lip. "I think I'm gonna ask her to move in with me."
Wilson almost drops the phone. "What?"
"I know it's soon, but…I just feel something, you know? Something I've never felt before. …Jesus, listen to me! I sound like a-"
Wilson has stopped listening.
Wilson has hung up the phone.
Wilson has turned his phone off.
* * * * *
Wilson had hoped to avoid House today, but is caught as soon as he gets off the elevator.
"You're here early," Wilson says. "And my phone died last night, sorry."
"I wondered," House replies, looking confused. "Are you okay? I thought with your stomach-"
"I'm fine."
"I called your apartment, like, a dozen times."
Wilson tucks House's concern away to savor later. "I ran into a friend, went back to their place." He pushes past House, trying to escape to his office.
He doesn't want to dwell on it, always feels terrible when he uses someone, even if they offer themselves up more than willingly. Because he always hates them; through the whole thing he hates them, because none of them is who he wants. And he hates himself for using people, because he doesn't want to use people. He doesn't want to be a terrible person…
It would just make so much more sense to die.
Of course House follows him into his office.
"Well," House stammers, uncharacteristically unsure of his words, "I was just worried that…I'd upset you. Or that you didn't like her."
Wilson looks at him, and he would swear House actually looked worried. Maybe House needs Wilson to like Stacy, because…because it would just make House's life easier, wouldn't it?
Wilson smiles warmly. "I did like her, House, I just felt like shit. I'm sorry I ruined the evening."
"Oh no, you didn't ruin it," House says quickly. (Maybe I wanted to ruin it, Wilson thinks bitterly, the smile never leaving his face.) "She had nothing but good things to say about you, and was concerned when you left so abruptly."
"How nice of her," Wilson says. He tries and fails to make the smile reach his eyes. I'm soooooo concerned what she thinks of me. "I'm sure I'll see her again soon."
"Definitely…so you're okay?"
"I'm fine! Just a bug."
House gives him a funny look, then nods and leaves.
Wilson collapses into his chair. He's so fucking tired of pretending to like people, but for House's sake he'll play along. Be the Good Friend; put his own needs aside. Turn all of the hatred back on himself.
He puts his head down on his desk.
The road is so very high sometimes, and there just never seems to be any traffic to lie down in front of.
HECTOR
Wilson smiles as the puppy notices his own tail and instantly declares war. He watches the puppy tumble across the carpet, snagging him before he can bump his head on the coffee table.
"Hector," he says quietly, holding the tiny white dog up to his face.
Bonnie was way too pleased with herself with that name. Wilson hadn't believed her; she had to write it out and point to each letter to convince him that he had married someone who already hated his best friend so much that she had expressed it by spending hours concocting an anagram in order to name a dog.
"This isn't going to work, is it, Hector?" he asks the puppy, who stares at the ceiling in reply.
Wilson sits on the floor cross-legged and absent-mindedly rubs behind Hector's ears.
Before the wedding, Bonnie had seemed tolerant of House. It was clear she didn't like him, wouldn't have liked him even if he didn't take up so much of Wilson's time.
But now that they were married, she seemed to be growing openly hostile. Like things were supposed to change now; he was supposed to always pick her over House, no matter what the circumstances, just because she was his "wife."
He wants to be a good husband; Bonnie's a good person, and he does love her…to a certain extent. He's come to realize that he really doesn't know her, nor does he know her expectations.
He doesn't believe he led her on. He's made no grand gestures, no sweeping proclamations of love. She even came onto him first. And yeah, he has said "I love you" on more than one occasion, and he did propose marriage and all…
A terrible coldness washes through him. Shit. He can anticipate it now - the moment when he ruins Bonnie's life. And it's no one's fault but his own.
If he wasn't so goddamned lonely and jealous, maybe he could just live alone and not worry about anyone loving him back. Or he could live with someone without marrying them! He's lived with how many women since he met House? He can't even immediately think of them all.
Why did he have to get married this time…?
An image of House and Stacy together flashes in front of his eyes. Not even an actual memory - they're there, sitting on his brand new living room couch, playing footsie and giggling and mocking him. Ignoring him.
At times like this Wilson doesn't recall the fact that he still spends a good deal of time with House; if he stopped to really think about it, he would realize that House doesn't act any differently around Wilson than he used to.
It's just that House is happy, and in love, and happy living with someone he loves; while Wilson is only one of those things.
He smiles sadly as Hector nips at his fingers. He figures it won't hurt to try this marriage thing again, and if nothing else he can always blow his brains out.