AMBIVALENCE
He considers using the palm of his hand to check the skillet, but flicks some water onto it instead.
He's been agonizing over whether to tell House, the shiny possibility of Feeling Better taunting him from outside his cage. He had hoped for the longest time that the situation he found himself in now would have been enough to help him feel better, but somehow being able to touch House whenever he wanted, however he wanted, was making him feel worse.
It's impossible to rationalize - he's hurt himself trying - but that's how it is. Sitting at work, thinking about lying down next to House later that night, fills him with ninety-nine percent unfettered joy and one percent despair so dark he can feel the pressure in his bones.
As he spreads cheese on a tortilla, he imagines walking into the living room and saying, "Don't worry, I'm going to fix the quesadillas, but first I need to tell you something and I'm going to just keep talking so you don't get the wrong idea and I don't chicken out-" And then he would tell House how he's felt all these years, how hard it's been just to be, and - either House will play doctor or lover or friend, and comfort Wilson as required and decide just what Wilson needs to Feel Better.
Or House won't care...or he'll call Wilson a pussy and tell him to buck up and face it, and rattle off all the things he has managed to live through, and ask Wilson what he has to be so depressed about anyway. And Wilson will be too wary of losing what little happiness he's got to bring up those things, and life will limp along worse than before.
Probably best to just let it lie.
Still, when House walks into the kitchen for a beer, Wilson has an impulse to just come out with it. "House I think about killing myself every second of every day and it's really wearing on me please help-"
When House smiles at him and grabs a handful of shredded cheese, Wilson says, "Did you want onions on yours?"
WARDROBE
He's going back to the hospital in a week. He's not sure how that happened.
Then a week after that that has a conference to go to already, and a paper to present. He's really not sure how that happened - some bullshit about it being the perfect way for him to get back into the groove, it's a low-key gathering, blah blah fine I'll do it if you stop talking.
He's trying to figure out his living situation when House approaches him. "Hey, I was thinking…"
"Yeah," Wilson says distantly.
"I'm not sure if you were going to go back to your place next week or…or whatever, but I mean, if you wanted to stay here…you're more than welcome."
Wilson looks at him slowly, gears turning. "Thanks," he smiles. "You know, I'm-I'm still not sure myself what I'm going to do, but…I would like to stay here. A while longer, at least…"
House nods awkwardly, and Wilson continues. "I'll go over to the apartment and get some stuff for work. Not a lot, just a week's worth or so, I mean I can do laundry-"
"Want me to help?"
Oh, now you want to help. "No no, like I said I'm not going to get a lot. If I-if I ever bring it all, well then I'll need your help then, okay?"
House smiles, and Wilson heads to Target.
He buys five ties for what one normally costs him, marveling at how they look pretty much the same. Five pairs of khakis, five dress shirts, some more boxers and socks and a couple belts and whiz bang, a whole new work wardrobe.
He picks up some new toiletries, reminding himself to dump part of them out in the parking lot in case Dr. Sherlock does some investigating. But really a lot of things that seem blazingly obvious to Watson have passed the ol' Doc by here recently these past twenty years, so he probably shouldn't be too worried.
IMPULSIVE
He wonders if House expects him to clean.
Scratch that – he assumes House expects him to clean. What he wonders is why House hasn't mentioned that he hasn't been cleaning.
He does the dishes and laundry when they pile up, but other than that pretty much everything stays where it falls. And it really doesn't bother him.
Of course now that he's started work again, he sort of has an excuse…
Wilson stares at the papers on his desk.
It's not quite the end of his first day back and he really doesn't want to be here anymore. It's not even that the work is hard, or that the people are annoying, he just doesn't want to be here. Even though he should stay here and get this stuff done, damn it, he doesn't WANT to.
So where does he want to be? What does he want to do?
Never one to dwell on the far future, he finds the idea no more appealing at the moment. But he can dwell on the next few hours, and in the next few hours he'd like to go out and have a nice casual dinner with House; and then he'd like to go back to House's messy apartment and get soundly fucked.
And well what do you know? Those are things actually within his capacity to make happen.
He leaves everything where it is and swings across the balcony into House's office.
House is stuffing things into his backpack, getting ready to leave. "Hey," he says, clearly surprised to see Wilson. "I was just about to come by."
"You want to go get something to eat?" Wilson replies, loosening his tie.
House frowns slightly. "I … thought this was going to be a late night for you."
"Yeah well I decided it's not. Let's go out." Wilson holds out his cane. When House grabs it, Wilson pulls him close into a kiss.
When they separate, Wilson holds him close and says quietly, "And then after we eat we're going home and you're going to fuck me until I can't breathe, got it?"
House smiles slowly as Wilson picks up his backpack and swings it merrily over his own shoulder. "I could get used to this kind of impulsive Wilson," he says as they leave the office. "Just don't throw any bottles and get us kicked out of Applebee's."
SECRET
He's a little disappointed in himself. It's been so easy to fall back into the routine of work; chatting with the nurses, consoling the patients, smiling at the people in the cafeteria. People seem to be truly happy he's back, and God it bugs him, but he just smiles and thanks them.
That would all be annoying enough. But then.
Then there's the Sympathy Endurance.
Yes, it's been tough. Yes, it was so sudden. Yes, she was taken so soon.
He has to thank these people for their concern, these people who didn't know Amber, didn't like Amber, don't even know him. Definitely don't like House, the only other person he loves.
The only remaining consolation he's got.
The only thing he has to look forward to as he fake-smiles his way through the day.
Because he has a fun little secret running through his head as he pretends to listen to an unimportant part of a patient's day.
Wilson loves to be fucked by House and he's not ashamed of it.
"How's your leg feel?" has become code for "Does it feel okay enough to fuck?" and he asks it every evening after a mind-numbing day at work.
He loves shoving his own fingers inside himself, stretching himself for House; the look on House's face when he does this, the look on House's face as he coats his cock with lubricant, waiting, wanting to push that cock inside Wilson.
When Wilson feels ready he lies back, open and on offer; and House wastes no time claiming him, pushing his legs back and biting at his neck. Some nights it lasts longer than others; but it's always a wonderful mess of sweat and moans and kisses, and House fills him with warmth and helps him forget that it's getting cold outside.
On one particularly cold night, actually, he wakes up on his stomach with House draped across his back.
He makes a questioning noise. "You were shivering," House answers quietly. "…Didn't feel like going to get another blanket," he adds.
Wilson nods, a chill passing through his body at just that moment. House holds him tighter, and Wilson wordlessly huddles into his embrace.
RELEASE
It hits him hard one evening while he's cleaning up the kitchen; harder than it has in a while.
He goes into the living room, where House is simultaneously reading an article and flipping through channels.
Sitting next to House on the couch, he wraps himself as non-awkwardly around him as he can. House seems surprised at first but quickly tosses the magazine and remote onto the coffee table.
He turns to better accommodate Wilson, who ends up between House's legs, arms around House's chest, with his face firmly planted against House's neck.
And he starts shaking.
House holds him. Tightly.
Wilson can't really know why House thinks he's so upset, though he probably thinks it's something to do with Amber. And of course she's part of it; a big part of it.
But it's so much more. It's so much more, House, he thinks desperately as he holds on, as House rubs his cheek comfortingly against Wilson's hair.
After a bit he settles down enough to pull back, and the look of concern in House's face is striking.
"You okay?" House asks gently, playing with Wilson's sleeve.
"Yeah," Wilson says, leaning in for a kiss.
The kiss quickly turns more heated than he had planned; soon House is on his back, his shirt pushed up and his pants undone. Wilson kisses him desperately, hovering over him, using one arm for balance and the other to rub along House's chest and side.
House moans into Wilson's mouth, the moan deepening when Wilson's other hand pulls out House's cock and starts jerking him. House fumbles for Wilson's fly to reciprocate, but Wilson ducks away, shaking his head with a smile.
This is the release Wilson needs right now. He spits on his hand and goes back to work, and when House tips his head back and lets out a short yelp, Wilson makes a small noise too.
Before House has even caught his breath Wilson's kissing him again.
Thus comforted, Wilson spends a much calmer evening next to House on the couch.
He takes care of the channel-surfing while House reads.
GUN
He stands in front of House's bathroom mirror with the gun to his head. He presses the barrel against his temple until it hurts, knowing he won't have the guts to do it but enjoying the pain.
He imagines House finding him. It would be quite a mess, and House would plunge right into it, even though it would be fairly obvious that Wilson would be a lost cause...Wilson briefly indulges in a cliched fantasy of House holding his dead body before rolling his eyes and putting down the gun.
A little melodramatic, he scolds himself as he tugs at the bags under his eyes.
Besides, House is quite willing to hold his warm, live body - why not focus on the miracle of that?
God he's tired.
More and more nights are playing out like this; he wakes up and can't get back to sleep, so he sits on the couch and cleans his gun with infomercials on mute.
He's had this gun for awhile now, though he's never fired it - and just recently he's started worrying that if the time came, it maybe wouldn't fire. Probably an irrational concern, but it's not like he can just casually test it now, at three in the morning in House's living room, to put his mind at ease.
It's a nice gun; nothing really original, just a .45 service pistol, but there's something so familiar about it at this point. It's comforting, heavy and welcoming in his hand. Wilson keeps a full clip in it because that seems the thing to do.
He holds the gun up in the light of the television. Looks good until tomorrow night.
He stuffs the gun back in its messenger bag and shuffles down the hall to bed. Even if he still can't sleep, something about the ritual with the gun calms him enough that he can relax and enjoy lying the in the dark next to House.
HAIR
It's already after midnight, and he has a long morning of driving to this stupid conference ahead of him; so the responsible thing would be to already be asleep, packed and ready to go at first light.
But his middle name is no longer Responsibility, so instead he's grinding on top of House's cock, savoring every sound his hips can cause House to make.
After a particularly drawn-out moan, he grins and leans down for a long lick across House's collarbone. "Gonna miss me?" he says into House's ear.
"Oh," House replies rather breathlessly, moving his fingers from the flesh of Wilson's hips to the feathers of Wilson's hair. "I suppose I can survive one weekend." He pulls Wilson's mouth to his and devours it, thrusting furiously upwards until Wilson's the one making the desperate noises.
Wilson arches his back and cries out at the ceiling, blocking out everything except the feel of House's cock inside of him, the feel of House's hand on his chest, the sound of his name as House's other hand closes around him and pulls an orgasm from him that must make him black out because
The next time he's aware of his surroundings it's quiet, and he's lying against House's chest but they're otherwise disengaged. House is running a hand slowly through his hair and asks, "When was the last time you had a haircut?"
Wilson smiles against House's bare chest. "What, you don't like it?"
"On the contrary," House replies, curling a piece around one finger, "I've always rather preferred your hair a bit longer. This is just-"
"I'll get it trimmed next week," Wilson interrupts. It hadn't occurred to him until now that he'd let his hair go so long without a cut, and something about it unnerves him, and he's really enjoying lying here with House. He doesn't want the afterglow derailed.
House murmurs acknowledgment, kissing Wilson in his messy hair, then continuing to play with it until Wilson falls asleep.
THIRD CONFERENCE
It's after noon before Wilson finally leaves, which for him is rather odd. But it doesn't matter; his presentation isn't until late tomorrow morning anyway, and he doesn't really care to see anyone else's, so why get there early, right? Much better to spend a nice Saturday morning lazing around with House.
"Is that all you're taking?" House asks, looking at Wilson's carry-on and messenger bags. "You don't even have a garment bag."
"The room'll probably have an iron," Wilson explains absently, adjusting the bag on his shoulder.
House nods, and it's time for Wilson to go, but neither one of them wants him to go, even though it's only for two nights, and there's a risk of things getting mushy and weird.
"Well, see ya," House says casually, hugging Wilson and his bags awkwardly. Wilson turns to leave and House grabs him, making him drop the bags; he pushes him against the door for a proper good-bye kiss.
An appropriate deal of groping later - though to House's credit, he stops just short of a hickey - Wilson shakily recovers his bags, wanting to go even less. He picks up the well-worn messenger bag and gives it a long look.
"You know, I don't think I even need to take this," he says, taking a notebook out of the bag and handing the bag to House.
"'Kay," House replies, tossing it towards the wall. Wilson jumps a little when it hits the floor.
A tiny part of him hopes House looks in it while he's gone.
MINIBAR
Wilson lies listlessly on the sofa, staring at the muted television. It's quite a nice room, and he figures he might as well enjoy it. Except for the time it took to read his paper, he's spent every minute here. The maid vacuumed around him.
He started draining the minibar as soon as his speech was over, and the small trashcans are filling up quickly. The beer and soda he just kind of lazily worked through while channel surfing throughout the afternoon, but now he's downed the first mini-bottle of vodka.
He opens the notebook.
There's so little in it that it's incredibly depressing. Twenty years' worth of aborted suicide notes in a single-subject, college-ruled notebook - random sentences, scribbles, doodles. Scraps of ideas with reminders to flesh them out later. To-do lists: Hector fed? Bonnie must have been out of town that weekend. make sure House has enough pills? Well that could have been any time.
Random patients' names that must have been important to him at the time, enough that he wanted to make sure they were taken care of.
Some pages have blood on them, a few enough that they're stuck together.
There's one little doodle of House that Wilson drew while Tritter was around, when Wilson thought that House was lost to him forever. Wilson's no artist by any means, but looking at the drawing again, he can't help but feel it conveys the hatred he feared he would always see in House's eyes.
Grabbing another bottle of vodka - vanilla-flavored! - he skims the numerous failed attempts at writing good-bye notes to House. Only he would be able to tell that's what they were, since none of them consists of anything more than House, I
Kinda funny, really.
Four bottles later, his cell phone rings.
"Hello?" he answers happily.
"Hey," House says. "You sound chipper. The presentation go well?"
"I guess. I wasn't really paying attention," Wilson says, idly writing his own name over and over in the notebook.
"O-kay. Are you all right?"
"Kinda bored. Raided the minibar." Now he's writing House's name with a bunch of hearts. "Lots of vodka."
"Big spender."
"Imma doctor. I can afford it."
"I know," House chuckles. "Hey, have you watched the Weather Channel today?"
"Not that bored."
"All right, all right, it's just - there's an ice storm coming through overnight, and I wanted to make sure you knew. So be extra careful tomorrow."
"Yeah, okay, Mom. …Wait, why were you watching the Weather Channel?"
Silence.
"Holy shit-"
"It's getting cold, okay? And it's been rainy, and yeah so maybe I was a little concerned. Maybe I - maybe I love you, okay? Okay, asshole? I love you. There. I've said it before, there I said it again. Don't think you've ever said it to me, but that's okay, I know you do-"
Wilson is amazed at the nervousness in House's words, which only emphasize their sincerity. And he's still rambling.
"House, shut up! You have no idea how much I love you, okay? You probably think you have some idea but you don't. You really don't. You can't possibly ever have any idea. And that's not the vodka talking, that's me. Okay? I love you. Always know that."
A few moments of silence, and then a rather incredulous, "Okay."
"And now I need to hang up, because I have to vomit. And that is the vodka talking."
Throwing up leaves Wilson feeling sick the rest of the evening, so he pretty much lies in bed with the fan on, dozing on and off and fantasizing about House being there with him.
House calls about five times to check on him, though eventually Wilson has to insist on trying to actually go to sleep if he's going to get up and out before check-out time.
Even so he's still awake past midnight; he tries some sexual fantasies, hoping a quick release might get him to sleep. But every time he imagines House climbing on top of him, he just as quickly imagines House settling next to him, just holding Wilson against his chest.
There's something perfect and sad about it, and he doesn't know what's wrong, or what's right, and he wishes he could take a sleeping pill or something but he really needs to get up early.
Eventually he calls House.
"Mmph," House answers.
"Sorry," Wilson says. "Can't sleep."
"Do you want me to sing to you?" House mumbles.
"No," Wilson says glumly. "I want you to hold me."
"All right, come here. …Oh wait, that's a pillow."
Wilson smiles. "Close enough for now, I guess."
"I promise to hold the fuck out of you as soon as I can, deal?"
"Deal. 'Night, House."
"Great. 'Night, Wilson."