Chapter Text
The next day, Wilson was up first as usual. He left House asleep and went to take a shower.
From House's and Howard's remarks, the morning -- the last before the verdict -- seemed auspicious. The judge would make her decision by the next day, and House would be off the hook before lunch. If not, Wilson anxiously reminded himself, they could always appeal.
Of course, he had no illusions about life after the trial, even if House won. Getting away with it wouldn't make House forget his insecurities or learn to trust Wilson. It wouldn't change the fact that House had stolen Wilson's prescription pad or that he was still dependent on a drug that would eventually kill him.
House was still in bed when he returned, sitting up and blinking lethargically.
"Hi," Wilson said, and a moment later House nodded his greeting. "You'd better move if you're going to make the closing arguments."
House made an apathetic sound before shuffling out of the room.
Wilson made coffee and got dressed, enjoying the almost schmaltzy domesticity. He'd missed this. He listened to the distant sound of the shower running as his mind drifted.
They hadn't talked about the oxy overdose or the Vicodin. Maybe they never would. While House might be cognizant of the problem now, and more cautious than before about the pills he was taking, Wilson knew that it would only be a matter of time before House moved on and forgot everything. How long would it take for House to start skirting the law to support his addiction again -- recklessly inviting his own destruction with every move? There was no way to tell.
But Wilson had known that from the moment House called him from jail -- almost from the beginning of their friendship -- and like it or not, he would just have to deal with it. House simply was who he was. There was no going back now, at least not without a divorce lawyer. For better, for worse, in sickness and in health ... Wilson would have laughed, but this wasn't just another marriage: this was House. The 'worse' might be pretty damn bad, but the 'better' should be able to compensate.
Wilson wasn't going to screw up again. Not this time.
He wanted to be able to convince House of that, to make him understand that there was a future in this -- in them -- but he wasn't sure if that was even possible. He'd already said everything he could. At some point, House would have to meet him halfway.
After his shower and the first cup of coffee, House was almost human. He even offered to buy breakfast -- at McDonald's, no doubt -- but the clock was running and Wilson was going to be late to work, so he had to decline.
After a moment's hesitation, Wilson leaned in and kissed House. He tasted of dark roast and faintly of toothpaste. Part of Wilson remembered this gesture from the hundreds of times he'd kissed his wives before leaving for work, and he felt a little stupid doing it. As House had emphatically reminded him on more than one occasion, he was not another Mrs. Wilson. Yet a much larger part knew that his current situation couldn't have been more different. That same part couldn't help hoping that even if his words had fallen flat the night before, his mouth might be able to make up the difference.
Hours later, there was a knock on his office door and Stacy poked her head in. "Lisa stood me up," she said. "Can I borrow you for lunch?"
Wilson was a lot happier to see Stacy since he'd realized that the primary threat to his fantasies of a life with House wasn't Stacy but House himself. "You buying?"
"Wow," Stacy marveled, stepping through the door, "you two really are a perfect match. Sure, I'm buying. You look like you could use a decent meal -- and some company."
He winced. "That bad, huh?"
She answered with a sympathetic wince of her own. "No, I'm just good at recognizing the look of a fellow Greg House sufferer. Years of seeing it in the mirror every day will do that to you."
He couldn't dream of the kind of gossip that might arise from his having lunch with House's ex in the cafeteria, so they ended up going to a place within walking distance of the hospital. They talked idly about patients and clients and mutual friends, never straying too close to House, the trial, the Vicodin, or any other sore subject.
Wilson drank too much coffee and lost himself in that morning's disjointed thoughts. How many years would House have left -- how many years would they have with each other -- before the drugs finally killed him? Wilson didn't have as much as a guarantee that House wouldn't continue trying to drive him away. He thought he could handle it, could handle him, but what if he turned out to be wrong?
"Penny for your thoughts?"
Wilson smiled wanly. "My thoughts will set you back at least a nickel."
"Hey, I bought lunch. I think you can share whatever's going on in your head."
He pressed his lips together and tried to think of some way to explain. It was impossible, and it wouldn't have been fair to her anyway to expect her counsel. "I'm just wondering whether this is all just -- borrowed time," he said, "even if he doesn't end up in jail. I'm wondering whether I'm deluding myself into thinking that this will last."
Stacy reached across the table and covered his fingers with her own, stopping his nervous tapping. Her wedding ring glinted. "James. The last time I was here, what did you tell me about getting involved with him again?"
Wilson squinted and tried to remember. Did she want specifics? "That ... he'd been pining for you for five years and you couldn't just toy with him?"
Apparently that had been the right answer, because Stacy smiled at him. "He asked me to move in a week after our first date. Greg doesn't understand the concept of 'halfway.' When he goes into a relationship, it's with everything he has."
She squeezed his fingers and then withdrew her hand. "He's a pain in the ass. He's rude, narcissistic, and obsessive -- but he's also amazing. If you can deal with the bad stuff, then he's yours."
"I thought you were supposed to be over him."
"Does anyone ever really get over him?"
Wilson smiled. His cell phone rang and after a glance at the caller ID, he gave Stacy an apologetic glance and answered it. "Hey."
"Get your ass back here," House demanded. "Howard called. Something about meeting with the DA."
Expecting the worst and having no idea what that might entail, Wilson asked, "What happened? Where are you?"
"I don't know, and my office. Where are you?"
Wilson glanced across the table. "I'm having lunch with Stacy," he answered. "Do you really need me to come along?"
There was silence on the other end of the line. Wilson was about to check to see if they'd been disconnected when House answered in a low, chagrined tone.
"I don't know what this is about." He paused. "I want you to come with me."
It shouldn't have felt so good to hear House admit that he wanted Wilson around, that he needed Wilson to be there, maybe even that he was afraid to go alone. He looked to Stacy, who waved him away with one hand.
"Meet me out front in ten minutes," he answered.
* * *
House was in front of the hospital just as asked, looking impatient and a little nervous, when Wilson pulled up with his car. He didn't say anything as he got in, and Wilson had to ask him where he was supposed to drive.
The DA's office was easy to find. Howard was out front when they arrived, wearing a peevish look that was surprisingly similar to House's.
"You're late," he said as he led them inside and down a hallway.
"Sorry," House said, sounding not the slightest bit sorry. "Honeymoon phase. You know how it is." They rounded a corner and saw McKenna and Tritter. House pointed to Wilson with an exaggerated wink and a nod and then practically shouted, "He's insatiable."
Wilson would have cringed if he didn't get such a perverse pleasure out of watching Tritter's agonized expression.
"Gentlemen," McKenna greeted them, although he sounded as if he doubted that the term really applied. He opened the door to a small conference room and gestured for them to enter.
The room's main feature was a long cherry table with chairs on each side. McKenna and Tritter walked around the table. Howard sat on the opposite side and House took the chair next to him. Wilson, too nervous to sit, stood aside and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed.
Howard steepled his fingers. Wilson watched House shoot a lethal glare at Tritter from across the table.
Eventually McKenna cleared his throat and spoke. "We're prepared to offer a deal."
Wilson looked up in shock. Howard, who couldn't have been cockier if he'd sprouted wings and started crowing, leaned back in his seat. "Well, we might as well hear it," he said.
McKenna glanced briefly at Tritter before looking back across the table. "It's the same deal as before," he explained. "Eight weeks in a rehabilitation facility in exchange for a plea of no contest. Dr. House gets to keep his license to practice medicine and he doesn't have to serve time."
Wilson shut his eyes and sighed. They had to know by now that House wasn't interested in rehab except as a last resort. Now that they stood a good chance of winning -- an excellent chance of winning, if this desperate effort was anything to go by -- there was no way he'd even consider it. Why was McKenna wasting his time?
Scoffing would have been undignified for a man of Howard's caliber, but he made the message clear. "You're offering the same deal now that you offered before the trial? You must be feeling pretty nervous, counselor."
McKenna narrowed his eyes. Wilson could tell that he knew the score as well as they did. This was a desperate move. "The deal's on the table," he said. "You can either take it or leave it."
Howard smiled pityingly. "Well, I'll have to give my client time to consider your offer."
McKenna looked tired. "Will twenty-four hours be sufficient?"
"Oh, I think that will be more than enough," Howard smugly answered.
"Okay," House said quietly.
The room was silent. Wilson was distantly aware that Howard, McKenna, and Tritter were all staring in shock. He was too busy gaping at House, who was looking at the table, his forehead furrowed in thought, to pay them much notice.
Nobody seemed inclined to say anything until Wilson cautiously ventured, "House?"
He didn't even look up. "I said, okay."
"We should take some time to think about this," Howard patiently explained. "There are a lot of factors to consider --"
"Don't need to," House said firmly, still looking at the surface of the table.
Wilson's jaw dropped. "You don't have to do this," he said. Whatever he thought about House's pills and their effect on his health, this had to be House's decision, and he deserved to know all his options.
Finally, with what looked like considerable effort, House turned and glanced briefly at Wilson before his eyes flickered back down. "I want to do it."
Wilson shook his head in disbelief. "You -- it's the same deal! You could have taken it before the trial!"
"I reject the deal, you get pissed at me. I accept the deal, you get pissed at me. Is it just me, or does this seem like a lose-lose situation here?"
"I just want to know why," Wilson said. "Why now?"
The irritation drained from House's face and he turned away, suddenly quiet again. Wilson watched him swallow and lick his lips before answering.
"Maybe ... I thought you might have some valid concerns," he said. "Maybe I don't want my liver crashing in five years. Maybe I'd like to stick around for a while, see what happens. Maybe ..." He paused and looked up again, meeting Wilson's gaze with lucent eyes. The rest of the room seemed to fade away completely. "Maybe I want to give this a chance."
Wilson stared, and kept staring, and still had no idea what to say -- or whether he was even capable of speaking. He swallowed thickly. "You could win," he said in a voice that shook only slightly.
House nodded grimly but didn't look away. "I could lose. I could lose more than just this trial."
Wilson sucked in a sharp breath and then moved toward House. As if reading his mind, House stood and met him, face to face, only inches apart.
"Are you sure this is what you want to do?" Wilson asked quietly, gripping House's shoulder to steady himself. "Howard's right, we should take some time --"
"Are you trying to talk me out of this?"
Wilson choked on a laugh. "I have no idea what I'm doing," he admitted.
House answered by wrapping his hand around the back of Wilson's neck, his thumb stroking Wilson's hair.
"We'll find a place with a pain specialist," Wilson said, "someone who knows how to deal with your leg and your medical history. Somewhere close. It'll be okay. We'll get through this."
Howard coughed politely and Wilson was jolted back to reality. He pulled away and looked at House, whose face was clear but whose eyes were just the slightest bit wet.
Across the table, McKenna sighed. "Look, do you want to take this deal or not?"
A corner of House's mouth quirked up. He stared at Wilson, his blue gaze never wavering, and solemnly answered, "I do."
At the table, Howard shrugged, smiled, and reached an open hand across the table. "Counselor," he said, "we accept."
* * *
"... so I'm going to rehab," House explained to the assembled throng in his office: Foreman, Cameron, Chase, and Cuddy. Wilson leaned against the wall and surveyed their reactions.
"Oh, now you're taking the deal," Foreman said dryly. "That's good. You wouldn't want to rush into a decision like that. Probably better to drag everyone you know through a long, painful, totally pointless trial first."
Cameron, seated, gaped up at House. "You could have taken the deal weeks ago!"
House shot Wilson a glare, but Wilson just shrugged.
Cuddy stared at Wilson like he'd just performed an elaborate magic trick. He wanted to protest that he'd had nothing to do with House's decision, but it wasn't exactly the truth. Just because he hadn't orchestrated it didn't mean he wasn't partly responsible. Still, House knew he didn't have to go to rehab to keep Wilson -- it wasn't that kind of deal. House had made this sacrifice for his own reasons.
In a way, it was kind of romantic.
"I'll need two months," House told Cuddy.
"It's yours."
"We were hoping to use the rest of the afternoon to find a treatment facility," Wilson said. House gave him a look that said there was no way he was hoping to spend his afternoon checking out rehab programs, but maybe a round of relationship-affirming sex would make the process less tedious.
Wilson was willing to take the rest of the month to visit each and every program on the Eastern Seaboard with House in tow if it meant that they could find one where House would be -- if not happy, then at least unlikely to lead a coup against the management. House was going to be on some sort of prescription painkiller for the rest of his life, but they could find a way to manage the nerve damage to his leg without destroying the rest of his body. Past experience had proven to Wilson that if this decision was going to stick, House had to be in control of every step.
"Fine," Cuddy said, still awed.
"Chase, you're in charge until I'm back. Try not to screw everything up."
Chase gave him a mock salute.
"Do you still want me to take care of the rat?" Cameron asked.
House patted her on the shoulder with what might have been affection and she glanced up, a resigned smile on her face. "Sure."
Wilson felt a twinge of guilt, but Cameron seemed to be taking the whole thing better than he'd anticipated. She had to be hurting -- she wouldn't be Cameron if she didn't -- but another part of her must have been happy for House. For both of them, hopefully.
"Okay," House said, grabbing his coat and heading for the door. Wilson shrugged and followed. They didn't get far before Foreman blocked the doorway, arms crossed.
"Wilson already tried to keep me from going to rehab," House said. "If it didn't work for him, I don't think it's gonna work for you."
Foreman smirked. "I'm not going to hug you. And I don't want to take care of your rat."
"Good," House said, "because I'm fresh out of hugs. And rats, actually."
Instead, Foreman stuck his hand out. House glanced down, looked back at Foreman's face, and then grudgingly shook the proffered hand.
"Try to be less of an asshole when you get out."
"I don't think there's a rehab for that," Wilson muttered.
They were three steps out the door before Cuddy's voice stopped them.
"I know why you're doing this," she said to House in a low voice as she approached. "And I think it's sweet."
"Yeah, not going to prison is the sweetest thing ever," House sneered.
Cuddy smiled, a little smugly, and walked away without another word.
They walked toward the elevator. "You don't trust me to take care of your rat?" Wilson asked.
"Hey, you get to have me -- I had to give Cameron something."
"Ah, so you were just being equitable."
"You know me," House answered. "Always a diplomat."
Wilson pushed the button and they waited in companionable silence. When they stepped into empty elevator a few moments later, he glanced at House and simpered, "I think what you're doing is sweet, too."
House pushed the elevator button with his cane with a bit more force than necessary. "Oh, shut up."
* * *
There was a navy blue duffle bag on the bed, packed with House's clothes, which he'd scrunched and rolled into wads. Wilson cringed, but wrinkles probably weren't a major concern in rehab. On top of the pile of clothes sat a new portable DVD player.
"When did you get this?" Wilson called to House, who was puttering around in the living room, probably up to no good.
"Today," House called back. "Going away present from the kids. Or wedding gift, maybe. That would explain the horrifying card they bought to go with it." Wilson glanced up when House poked his head through the bedroom doorway. "Anyway, it's mine and you can't have it."
"Well, I hate to break your possessive little heart, but you're not supposed to bring expensive electronics to rehab. You'll never believe it, but there are drug addicts there."
House dropped his jaw and pretended to be shocked.
Wilson turned his attention back to the bag. "What else do you have in here?" he wondered aloud as he poked through balled-up t-shirts, producing an iPod, a can of Pringles, and --
"House, what ...?" He pulled his own gray McGill sweatshirt out of the bag and held it up questioningly.
"Oh, is that yours? Sorry, but if it's in my drawer, it's my shirt now."
"There's no way this would fit you. It barely fits me. I've had it since I was seventeen --"
"So?" House said, his eyes just daring Wilson to comment. "Maybe that's why I want it."
Wilson considered that. Then he carefully folded the sweatshirt and put it back in the bag. "Okay, but leave the expensive stuff here." He looked up, waiting for the smart-ass retort, but House was quiet.
Wilson placed his open palm on the sweatshirt, feeling the heat from his hand transfer to the worn fabric, wishing he had some way to keep it warm for the next eight weeks. "It's not going to be easy," he murmured.
"Never said it would be."
"But it's only two months. I'll visit. It's no problem for me to visit."
House was silent. Wilson took a deep breath and crossed the room until House was in his arms, warm and alive.
"Conjugal visits?" House murmured hopefully into his ear.
"It's rehab, not prison. I don't think they do conjugal visits."
"Then you'd better get your ass to bed, because if I have to live like a monk for two months, I'll need to store up a lot tonight."
House's kiss was surprisingly soft at first; unexpectedly tender, but a moment later he pressed forward, lips and tongue seeking more heat. Wilson opened his mouth wider and kissed back, meeting House touch for touch and breath for breath -- and yeah, after having this for just a week, two months without it was going to be a slow torture. On the other hand, it could have been a lot worse.
"It worked," Wilson mumbled when they pulled apart.
"Beg your pardon?"
"The civil union -- it worked. It kept you out of jail just like it was supposed to, because it got us here -- and if we hadn't done this, would you have taken that second deal?"
House was skeptical. "I think Howard might have had just a little bit to do with keeping me out of jail and getting them to offer another deal."
"He helped," Wilson said, trying not to smile. He thought he made a good point. Without the civil union charade, they might never have gotten here. House would never have traded dependency for human relationships, self-destruction for the possibility of genuine happiness.
All it had taken was a felony, a night in jail, and a sham marriage to save House's ass that became a real marriage that was saving everything.
"Actually," Wilson said, "in a way, Tritter is responsible for all of this, including us getting together. Maybe you should thank him."
"I'll send him a fruit basket," House muttered against Wilson's neck while struggling to unfasten his pants.
Then again, nobody had ever said that life with House was going to be easy. Or mundane.
Wilson wouldn't have had it any other way.