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0,
House was not a man of many rules. That said, he was an old dog with bad habits. One of many had only become clear to him in his tween years and shadowed his life ever since. It was frankly so unimportant and so utterly stupid he denied it and eventually simply ignored it. The thing was, he could not bunk with other dudes.
It wasn’t a problem for a grown man, hell it had not even been a problem when he was a kid. An only child with no substantial friends. It was a quirk, if anything. When he was a teen it turned into a bit. As the other kids were together, sprawled, entangled and unbothered in the queen size mattress in the basement floor. They just watched shitty movies while smoking cheap pot. House would claim the shaggy couch and smack away any of his friends that even attempted to climb up and invade his space. He would call himself King of The Bong and sleep with both hands behind his head, a flimsy crochet blanket covering him as the rest huddled with jackets and a single unzip sleeping bag. It brought a certain pride, a pathetic and yet effective deflection from the reality that he was both too awkward and too insecure to put himself in any sort of vulnerability with another person. He wasn’t weird about it. He could , technically, share the couch, or a bed if he was traveling with friends and the situation was precarious. But he quickly found out not sleeping was better than tolerating the deep routed vertigo that took over him when shit hit the fan. The floor wasn’t half as bad. In all honesty, House felt safe with his own discomfort.
It didn’t even register as something odd- not among his other bullshit anyways- until he noticed his rule only seemed to apply to men.
When he hooked up with women he didn’t consider the possibility of sharing a bed as something threatening, whatever tight feeling would sneak up whenever his friends would lay next to him- even if it was for a quick moment- was nowhere to be seen. If anything he had the horrific finding that he enjoyed a warm body next to his. Even the few strange times in college he shared bed with women who were nothing but friends he felt calm.
So what was the fucking issue with men?
He wasn’t a homophobe, he had wondered if it came out of principle or morality but it was more out of lack of interest. You needed to invest energy in hating people and House was more pragmatic with hatred, allowing it only when it was required and even as a dumb, loud mouth and sometimes cruel child, he couldn’t be bothered with it.
Oddly enough he grew to resent the jabs and puns his classmates and friends so freely seem to come up with. The missing organic nature to be a dick towards queers was lacking in him. It made him feel a bit dull, like there was something inherently tame about his humor. Later in life he grew to value how little of shit he gave about who others chose to fuck. But for a moment he was puzzled about it. If there wasn’t more to it. If he was missing some macho level of wit that clearly was important enough that any other dumbshit could master it.
Wilson, who only knew any of this because there’s only so much vicodin you can mix with whiskey and cancer weed before you start oversharing, laughed until tears busted out of his eyes.
“House,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “You made more gay jokes than any person I know.”
“Gay jokes,” House had retort, frowning and postering confusion “not joke at gays.”
“But you do! All the time!” Wilson's brown eyes glinted under the soft light of the office, the chuckles were unwarranted but House basked on it.
“Oh, shut up,” He swung his cane making Wilson duck even if it didn’t come anywhere near his head. “Of course I eventually grew a fine taste and a wide repertoire of homophobic one liners, what I mean it’s I put effort.”
“Do you want a gold star?”
“You are missing the point.”
“You,” Wilson's voice turned the right note of disapproving and House beam “Are not pragmatic with hate. You hate everything out of principle. Because otherwise you would love it and you love too much--” Wilson was talking nonsense as he often did while high.
“Are you implying I couldn’t come up with gay jokes because I don’t love the queers enough?”
“What? No, let me finish and- God,” he grabbed the joint House had just popped inside his mouth. “You cannot smoke my patient's medicine, House.”
“Sorry, how could I deprive the dying grandmas of dope.” He tried to grab another one and Wilson slapped his hand. “Just one more, mum, I swear I will brush my teeth.”
“ You ,” Wilson continued, grabbing his glass and pushing it in the air, clearly trying to appear at ease but coming out looking more disheveled. He smiled, his head turned to the side. “only see the worst of yourself. It’s artificial, House, you are grasping at straws trying to make yourself into a monster worthy of your self hatred. You make everyone hate you to vindicate your own delusions that you are evil, and you hate because it’s easier than loving, which is not, by the way--”
“Alright, Dr. Lecter, when you are done psychoanalyzing me into loving myself and humanity, we can get back to my actual problem.”
“That you didn’t bully gay children in high school?”
By that point House had completely forgotten that he only began telling that story as a segway to his real issue. The not being able to tolerate a man in close proximity problem. But then the idea of telling Wilson he couldn’t share a bed with a man sounded misguided and honestly not his brand of self destructive, no matter how much alcohol, pills and weed were swimming in his system.
“That the dipshits could do it and I couldn’t.” He tilted his head, leveling Wilson with a glare. “And you need to hang out with Cameron less if you think I love too much.”
Wilson raised his eyebrows “Your ego is fragile but even for you, House, this is ridiculous.”
“Not ego. It 's an anomaly. You know how I feel about those.”
Wilson made a jerky movement with his head, eyes narrowing. “I agree. I also think you have nothing to worry about because you grew into a dipshit yourself.”
House smiled, letting his head hang. “Your charm doesn’t work with me, Wilson, stop flirting.”
The unmoved expression was only betrayed by the small curl of Wilson’s lips.
1,
The door of the fridge swung open and House threw his beeper inside, looking through the tupperware and grabbing Wilson’s, he opened it and smiled at the half eaten chicken salad. House ate over the sink and left the mess at plane sight.
The oncology lounge was beautifully empty so he unceremoniously flopped on the couch, the pain electrifying and biting at his thigh, his hand gripping and massaging with a tremble. He pops two pills and breathes in slowly as the tv tunes off, the sound hollow as he clenches his jaw and sinks his knuckles into the riddle of nerves and pain. He’s only vaguely aware of the door opening and closing. With the years it’s become almost impossible not to recognize Wilson the second he puts a foot into a room. For one he has a remarkably unique way to shuffle his feet, the oxfords rasping against the hospital laminal floor, he always picks them up, in the haste of someone who only knows how to walk in a hurry. Then, of course, he could recognize him for the huffing and puffing he made as he cleaned his tupperware and the fork House had used. Not to mention the issue of his perfume, Wilson would stink up any place he inhabited no matter for how long. He would rotate perfumes depending on the season and at the moment was wearing Rocabar , House had spend weeks trying to figure out exactly what the fuck was he wearing and ended up rummaging thru Wilson’s bathroom and reading every name and sniffing them. Wilson had barely reacted when he walked on him, turning on the lights to find Greg crunching over the sink like a raccoon rummaging through garbage. Of course after that he replaced the majority of his perfumes and colognes if only to annoy House, he also had moved them to his bedroom which House thought was kinda moronic considering he had no problem turning the room upside down in the hunt for them. The only one that survived that first purge had been a broad tall one, the liquid inside of a yellowish brown. It was oddly similar to Wilson's own eyes. It was spicy in a note House couldn’t quite place. Wood and something sweet behind it. It was a head turner.
Of course not for House.
The perfume smell was only dull down by fabric softener and hand cream, and by this time of the day- or to be more precise, night- there’s another smell that House has come to understand as Wilson’s own, sweat and skin, with a stench of cleaness only he can keep up with after hours stuck inside those button up shirts.
House opens only one eye when Wilson’s crumbles beside him, their knees knocking together. The man looks exhausted, resting his head and breathing deeply.
“I’m guessing your patient didn’t have a miraculous turn around.”
Wilson makes a disapproving noise but finally relents and says “He died.”
House needs a moment to bite back the ‘ I'm sorry’ and goes for “Well, liver cancer tends to do that.”
“House…”
“Am I wrong? Cuz last time I che--” He doesn’t get to finish the sentence when a particularly sharp pain ripples thru his tight and makes him hiss. “Fuck.”
He closes his own eyes just in time to see Wilson open his, worried. Always so fuckin worried. There was a tense silence where House prepared for Wilson to finally open his fucking mouth “Are you--”
“Peachy.”
“House,” Wilson breathed out slowly. “You know--”
“If you mention physical therapy one more time Wilson…”
His friend huffed, annoyingly shifting in his place. House pressed his knuckles against his tight, the pain shooting and then softening just enough for him to say “So how’s that hot nurse doing?”
“Which one?”
“Redhead.”
“Oh, she’s great. She actually has a Phd in Philosophy. She 's brilliant.”
“Oh, redhead and a lesbian.”
“I didn’t said that--”
“Implied.”
Wilson chuckled and House could tell he was relaxing, a smile creeping upon him as he heard his friend stretch out. “Looks like Dr. Shelby is not coming back from that coma, uh?” House opened his eyes, excited, he looked over at the TV where a bandage person laid in a flimsy hospital bed. The budget was really getting lower on their favorite processual. It added some charm, in House’s opinion.
“He deserves it after what he did to Dr. Fernandez.”
They talked for a while and House could feel the vicodin mellow him. He would have fallen quietly into sleep if it wasn’t for Wilson's head dropping on his shoulder. It startled him but more importantly it froze him into place.
It was a wonder how this was happening for the very first time.
They spend years together, drinking and eating into late hours of the night and yet they always manage to crawl away from each other before falling asleep. Greg knew it was his own doing. He would always kick James out of the couch before curling onto himself like a cat. Wilson was too committed to his own macho overcompensating bullshit to notice exactly how odd it was for your best friend to be incapable to tolerate touch. Not to mention the endless other reasons neither of them could afford to think about.
House had walked on Foreman and Chase sleeping like a litter of puppies enough to understand most- somewhat- emotionally regulated people didn’t make a fuss about sharing a couch with their friends.
It was weird, but then again House wasn’t exactly a poster child for normality. Wilson’s head felt heavy, his body leaning against him warm and solid.
House wasn’t breathing.
He tried to slip away as gracefully as he could master but Wilson made a noise, something gravely and clearly of the makings of someone prey on the claws of REM sleep. House was about to push him, make fun of him when Wilson's arm reached out, his palm dropping on Greg’s shoulder, gripping onto his shirt. House head felt like cotton candy, his mouth pasty from the vicodin, he wanted to talk, to grab Wilson’s and shake him, instead he just breathed out.
He tried to think when was the last time someone fell asleep on him. Stacy? He ignored how depressing that was. Even back there he resented it. Right after the infraction, when they were trying to settle back into their lives, House had started to get more and more annoyed by her presence in the bed. She would try to lay her body on his like before and would wake up House in pain, the anger and frustration too close together to untangle. He would often close his eyes and try to imagine he was somewhere else- in his old apartment, where Stacy could not reach him. He would construct the walls and furniture in his head, try to block out the reality of where and whom he was sleeping with. It was the only way he could sleep. To get some peace, some rest. It also made him feel like an asshole, it made him feel desperate, knowing that not even Stacy was safe from his incapacity to be. He was supposed to love her and yet he hated her guts, and who the hell was he supposed to love if it wasn’t her? Wilson was leaning more of his weight against him and House let it happen, relaxing his shoulders and breathing in again, the smell of Wilson’s coconut shampoo and dumbass perfume making him feel a little more steady.
The TV was playing still and he focused on the sound of it, trying to ignore his friend’s warmth, the weight of his body on his.
It was Wilson.
He had cleaned House’s vomit, shit and piss, had showered him and tucked him into bed.
There was simply nothing he could do to drive Wilson away and the fear that clung into his throat made little to no sense. It had never made sense but it was just unacceptable with James. Of all people.
Either out of stubbornness against his own weakness or because he quite simply was too afraid to move, House forced himself to relax his jaw and get more comfortable. He wanted to wake up his friend, but he wasn’t sure he could deal with him while his heart was still beating too fast and his hands had begun to tremble. It was ridiculous. Pathetic, clearly the result of an unloving father. He was such a sad fuck. He closed his eyes, forming fists with his hands and pressing until his nails sent shivers of pain thru his palm. He concentrates on breathing, letting the sound of the TV show wash over his own unorganized thoughts. It all mellowed until it felt almost quiet,
James' body rises with his own breathing, his mouth slightly open against Greg’s chest, a pool of saliva staining his shirt. The weight didn’t feel that bad, he realized. It was comforting. Like a shock blanket. As he looked down Wilson’s hair was pressed against his face and that was sort of nice as well. It was softer than any grown man's hair had any right to be. House looked at him for a while until his eyes dropped closed out of exhaustion, like the panic had worn him out.
Dr. Shelby was coming out of the coma by the time House fell asleep again, only vaguely aware of his arm around Wilson.
*
A loud bang made House jump, his leg cramping, pain shooting right to his brain and making him groan. He realized, a little out of it, that he was holding onto something big and hot. It brought a distant memory of taking naps with his mother's giant dogs- a pack of strays she had not so subtly adopted despite her husband's distaste for any sort of pet. They would stretch under the shade in the blazing heat of Egypt, his dad used to wake him up, telling him to do something worthwhile with his time and scolding him for lying on the ground surrounded by those muts.
When he opened his eyes the first thing he saw was Cuddy’s ass, as she bent down to grab the book she had dropped, the second was Wilson's face, way too close to his as he blinked raptly, confusion and horror all at once. House all but jumped to his feet, grabbing his cane and blinking away the sleep.
“You two need some privacy?” Cuddy finally asked, clearing her throat.
“Yes, actually, and if you could bring some lube it would be just lovely.”
“Nothing else you want to ask? Aren't you gonna suit up?” She snapped without missing a beat.
“I always carry.” House retorted, tapping his finger against his front pocket where his wallet bulged.
“You know they erode if you carry them in your wallet, right?”
“Sh, don’t expose my plans of impregnating Wilson.”
She made a thoughtful noise, raising one eyebrow “I always guessed it the other way around.”
“What?” Wilson said. He was slowly coming to himself, looking around like he had gotten hit with an anvil on the head. “What?” He asked again, looking up at them. His hair was a mess, sticking into every direction, eyes puffy from sleep and shirt wrinkled beyond repair. House felt something dangerously like vertigo and hurried away towards the fridge.
Cutty ignore Wilson and followed him “Your team is been looking for you--”
“Not very hard apparently.”
“Why are you not answering your beeper, House?”
“I misplaced it.” He said, shrugging innocently as he opened a cabinet and snatched some cookies.
“You lost it?”
“Yes,” He stuffed three cookies in his mouth, opening the fridge and grabbing the milk and his beeper, drinking from the bottle and raising the beeper. He continue talking his mouth filled with cookies and milk “Finghe ugh”
She leveled him with a glare and finally said “Go to work.”
*
House avoided Wilson for three days after that.
2,
Wilson was wrong about him, he didn’t hate everything out of principle. That being said sometimes he loved out of principle, like for example conferences. Objectively a torture and yet a perfect opportunity to taunt Cutty with room service charges, having enough leverage to make her- or the hospital- pay for it all, fuck some divorcee and antagonize his coworkers. Not on that order necessarily, he likes to mix and match.
Nevertheless, it was becoming more clear with the years he really fucking hated conferences. The travel, the noise, the people, the talks and research that were pointless and a drag, the hotels and their shitty food, the constantly being sell treatments and drugs, the shitty bed and the shitty shower, the divorcees, his dick often not getting hard in front of the divorcees and more often than not having to pay for the room service right out of his salary. But for the bit? For the bit he could roll with the punches, if anything because the one thing that was never missing was alcohol and vicodin.
Now Cutty making him pay for his own room?
Too fucking much.
“House, don’t be unreasonable.” Cutty said over the phone “Share with Wilson or get yourself a hotel room somewhere else.”
“Why don’t you have Wilson get his own hotel?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“I already did!” House barks at the phone, he knocks on the door violently and screams without caring about the Cutty ears. “Wilson, our boss wants to talk to you!”
“Get a hotel room, House!” Wilson shouted from the other side. “It's under my name, it's my room.”
“For the love of god.” Cutty sighed from the other side before finally saying “You two are grown men, figure it out.” And hung up the phone.
House started knocking his cane against the door without relenting, chanting Wilson’s name at the top of his lungs. The room two doors away swung open eventually “Man shut the fuck up!”
House continued barely looking at the kid. Twenty something, shirt untucked and barefoot, the tip of his nose white and his nostrils irritated. He was about to make a remark on it when the door directly in front of Wilson opened. “Sir! Sir! It’s eleven pm, sir! Sir!”
“Dude, stop!” The coke up fellow shouted.
House turned around and smiled at the woman trying to negotiate with him. She was already dressed down for the evening, joggers and a cardigan that looked expensive and that she wrapped around her body the second she catched House’s eyes. “Sir, please, really, I’m trying-Hey! I’m talking to you!”
The door next to hers opened and some bewildered pediatrician came out with his hands already up, like he was stopping the traffic, his eyes and demeanor level in a tone only a man used to handling children having tantrums can execute. Before the pediatrician could say anything and at the same time another door opened further down the hall Wilson finally unlocked his, making Greg- who by that point was both banging his cane and trying to force the lock- stumble forward. It was a bit of a blur where he felt Wilson’s hand closing over his coat and pushing him inside and a generalized gratitude could be heard from their neighbors as his friend slammed the door close behind them.
“What is your problem?” Wilson asked, blinking too much, a hand on his hip.
House couldn’t help but smile. It was hard to stop when Wilson looked at him like that. “You need to get a room.” He simply replied, looking around at the piece of shit room. There was, of course, a single sad looking bed and a wooden chair that had definitely seen better days. The rug was a criminal green color and House didn't wait a second to rush to the bed and jumped on it, crossing his hands behind his head.
“House, really I’m not in the mood for this right now.”
“I’m not asking you to suck my dick, Wilson, I’m telling you to get yourself a room before it’s too late and too cold.”
“It’s already too late and too cold, House. And I told you that at 5pm!” He was tugging at his hair. House frowned at him.
“Why are you here anyways? Shouldn’t you be trying to romance some resident?”
“You are projecting.” Wilson snapped, sitting on the bed. He was wearing his McGill sweater and some pajama bottoms.
“You look dashing, Wilson, go get lucky,” he kicked him, trying to get him off the bed.
“No, House, I want to go to bed. You go and--Go!”
House just raised his eyebrows and turned towards the nightstand. Wilson’s watch was already there, next to his beeper and phone. He opened the drawer, a bible and a sleeping mask welcomed him. He grabbed both, throwing the book towards Wilson and putting on the sleeping mask “Read to me, mommy.”
There was a tense silence and then Wilson stood up, House smiled to himself as he listened to his friend walk around the hotel room, he stormed into the bathroom. House was waiting for him to come out to grab his stuff and leave in the search of a warm body and bed. Instead Wilson turned off the light switch and walked over to the bed. “Scoot over.”
House snored loudly as a response. Wilson puffed out a laugh and then- to House horror- started to climb next to him. House could either stay still and let Wilson straddle him or he could move. “Wilson. What are you doing?”
Wilson pressed his knee against House hip “Move.”
It was his voice that did it, he didn’t only move but stood up, taking Wilson with him and pushing him towards the wall. They stumbled in the dark and House leg gave up under him, James caught him by the arm which he immediately shook off, turning around like a whip, grabbing the pillows and the blankets.
“What are you doing?”
“You are sleeping on the floor!”
“No! I paid for the hotel room. You sleep on the floor!”
“I'm a cripple!”
Someone knocks on their wall.
“Oh shut up!” Both of them shout. Wilson breathes in deeply before saying in his best I'm about to tell you you are gonna die voice “Let’s just share, the carpet is disgusting, House, really--”
“Okay, I sleep on the floor.”
There was a tense confused silence where they both just stood there before House physically moved Wilson away and threw the pillows on the floor, lowering himself with some effort and curling like a cat around himself.
Wilson just stayed still, hovering over him. “What?”
“I’m sleeping, shut up”
House didn’t miss the small chuckle as Wilson finally lay on the bed.
**
Everything hurted.
His neck, back, arms, hips, spine, his right leg and especially his left leg.
Everything hurted and the vicodin was not helping.
But it took much worse to break him. And, it took far less to break Wilson. So what if House opened the window just enough to let the cold air of October fly in? It wasn’t like Wilson had heard or had any way to prove it. Anyways it was a small victory when the chittering of Wilson teeth finally gave into his breathing becoming more irregular, which meant…
“House,”
He ignored him.
“House!” Wilson tried again, louder. When it didn’t work he huffed and the mattress whined as he slid off it. House heard his friend's teeth clattering as he stumbled towards him, stepping on him and making him cry out in pain. “Shit! Sorry! Sorry!”
“Wilson what the fuck?”
“I’m freezing.” Wilson snarled as he stumbled towards the windows checking them. Of course House had closed them after the first two hours of feeling- himself- that he was camping at mount everest.
“How is that my problem? Go complain at reception. They have their room temperature fucked up.”
“You didn’t even leave me a towel!” Wilson snapped. House had indeed grabbed the towels to make a little nest in the floor.
“I’m sleeping on the floor if you haven’t noticed.”
“Im freezing!”
“Oh because down here is wonderland, come on Alice bring the fucking rabbit.”
“House!”
“What?!”
“Can you just--” Wilson breathed in hard. “Can you just get in bed?”
“Wow, man, buy me a drink first.”
“I had bought you more than enough drinks, House, get in the fucking bed.”
House, to all his credit, was trying to keep it calm. And yet… Well. The thing was, Wilson never cared. He was okay with touch, with intimacy and that misplaced closeness they have. Not that he was forward about it. He would freak out when it was pointed out by the right person, but was forthcoming with his own reality. Unlike Greg. Who, as to right now, was wishing he could just fucking die.
“Use the curtains as blankets.”
“What?”
“You could use the--”
“No. I heard you. I just don’t understand how me using the curtains as blankets makes more sense to you than--”
“Just grab the damn curtains and--”
“House.” Wilson's voice rises and Greg snaps his mouth shut. “Do you--Is anything--”
Do you wanna talk about it, is anything wrong, are you okay, what's wrong, Greg, talk, you can trust me, Greg show me you are not just a dick, come on, tell me, House heard as his friend stumbled to find the right words. And it was not new for them, to threaten the fine line between speaking out loud the things that were better to be unsaid. But it was dark and everything hurted and House was not entirely sure he could roll with the punches just for the bit. So, he stood up. Sort of. He grabbed the pillow and threw it at Wilson, blankets and towels as well. Wilson let out a huffed laugh and House smile as he used the wall for support to get up.
“Do you need--”
--help? Are you okay?
“Okay, shut up. Just shut up.”
“Sure.” Wilson said with a chuckle at the end.
He climbed into bed and quickly realized it was way too small for two men.
“This is homophobic.”
“What?”
“This is like, a--What? A queen? We don’t fit. Kinda homophobic, man. You name it queen and you cannot even fit two grown men in it?”
Wilson was trying to arrange the bundle of blankets and towels on top of them as House tried to settle in a way that kept some distance in between them. It was pointless. For one, Wilson was moving his arms and hands around like a lunatic and kept on brushing Greg’s whole body. It was, if anything, understandable considering neither of them where fully covered and House had made a tangled out of everything, but it was also too much movement and House felt like his heart was beating too loud and Wilson may hear it and think that he was in far more pain that he really was and that---
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I mean, how much is an emperor's bed?
“They are actually pretty expensive.”
“You checked? That 's gay.”
“How the hell is that gay?”
“Why would your scrawny ass and your tiny girlfriends have to be in an emperor size bed?”
“I like my space!”
“That's even more gay.”
“Oh, shut up!”
He had finally managed to cover both of them. It was far nicer than the floor. The carpet smelled like death and he kept on sneezing on the dust, the cold of the open window making him tense up, all his muscles, joints and bones already in pain. In comparison the shitty mattress felt like heaven and the foreign, distant, and yet very present warmth of Wilson's body was nice. That in itself made House feel strange. It was weird, right? To feel comforted by your friend's body close to yours. His heart kept on racing and the detached feeling of the world spinning in a dizzy mess was starting to take over him. An out of place memory of the previous week, when Cameron fell asleep on top of him creeps on his already incoherent train of thought. It hadn't felt like this. He had looked down at her and felt calm. Easy. If anything, she was endearing, like when you catch a cat yawning. It was cute . It didn’t send him into a panic. Her presence had been nice and he had relaxed reading some shit ass paper on lupus and had laughed when she woke up, embarrassed and slow. Now, he felt like he was out of balance. The pain consuming his patience, he was all frustration and anger, exactly how he felt with Stacy. A lack of words and something rotted inside of him, barking like a maniac.
“House?”
“Wilson?”
“Are you okay?”
“Do you wanna braid each other's hair too?”
The silence that followed was tense and House lungs hurted. He wasn’t breathing. Not really. He felt his brain slipping and the world turning and then he also felt Wilson hand on his and he breath out, and then, in. He blinked into the dark ceiling and swallowed, his mouth dried from the pills. Wilson’s hand was soft. Warm. His fingers pressed against Greg’s and left them there. Barely touching. “You know,” Wilson said, bringing some clarity into House's grasp on reality. “It’s okay if you are not.”
“You are so annoying.” House let out, sliding his fingers, letting them intertwine with Wilsons’. “I know.”
**
House woke up at 5am as his beeper was going off. He opened his eyes to a yellow ceiling with some dubois stains. He also noticed that he was being held. It didn’t scare him. Maybe because he was still asleep. It was natural despite being new. Wilson smelled like his dumbass Rocabar perfume and sweat and he was warm, solid, strong, his hand on House arms. It was like a dream and yet House knew it wasn’t but he didn’t move. He didn’t push Wilson away and he felt good.
That was, of course, until he remembered it the next day.
**
House woke up to an empty bed and a wide open window. In the rackety desk sat a note held down by a cold coffee that said got a room ;)
3,
House threw the beeper inside the freezer this time. He then grabbed Wilson’s dinner- a wonderfully done steak with potatoes, heated in the microwave and ate it like a rabid dog. He left as big of a mess as he could before walking towards the couch and laying completely over it, stretching and closing his eyes.
He wasn’t sure when or for how long he had fallen asleep when a body dropped next to his knees. Sleep had been almost impossible lately and he had quit trying at home.
“Mhh?” He asked, opening an eye to see Wilson frowning at him. He closed his eyes again. “What?”
“What? You ate my dinner. House, I have told you. I can cook for you if you ask.”
“Jesus christ, do you want to hold my dick next?”
“I would like to have the food that I made for myself.” Wilson retorted unbothered.
“Go buy yourself dinner, Wilson, you can afford it.”
“No. I can’t, actually because I bail you out just last week---”
“Then don’t buy a stake!”
“It was half the price--” Wilson stopped himself. “No. Fuck that. Dont. Eat. My. Food.”
“Whatever.”
“That’s not an answer, House--”
“Look,” He opened his eyes and reached for the remote, accidentally falling a little into Wilson’s lap. He pretended not to notice as he turned on the TV “Dr. Shelby is looking better!”
“House--” Wilson snapped but then turned to the TV frowning hard. “That’s bullshit.”
“I know, right?”
After half an hour of intense debate about Dr. Shelby many flaws, Wilson ended up stretching out on the couch as well. Mainly to annoy House. So he said. House wasn’t so sure. His whole body tensed up as he did so, his legs lining up with Greg’s body, knocking against his hip, ribs and shoulder. Something thick and unfamiliar settled on his gut. Their conversation died off and House could barely pay attention to the TV show as Wilson moved around. He was trying to get comfortable and failing. “Stop moving.”
“You are hoarding the whole couch.”
“Dude, go to work.”
Wilson huffed, offended, sitting and swinging his legs, hitting the floor. House was sure he was about to leave, but instead he turned around, pressing his back against House's chest.
Many quick questions rushed to House's mind but none of them seemed willing to leave his mouth. He had been using the armchair as a pillow, his neck supported by his shoulder and arm. Wilson shifted so his own head laid on Greg’s forearm, his mouth near his wrist, sending a hot puff of air right against his pulse.
“So when Cutty walks in and sees us, do I pretend I don’t agree with her thinking this is gay or---” House's own voice felt far away, the cognitive dissonance between being full of shit and saying the full truth more present than ever.
“Cutty is out. It’s 3am and I'm the only one doing rounds tonight and your fellows never come down here.” Wilson's mouth moved against Greg’s skin, his tone quiet, unmoved by his friend’s words.
“ Why are you here?”
“Why are you ?”
Dr. Shelby was pulling Dr. Fernandez into a passionate kiss and Wilson made a disapproving noise, ignoring the lack of response from House. On account of course, that it helped his own deflection. House's throat was closing in and despite knowing it was not very likely Wilson could listen to his heartbeat speeding up, he was still terrified. His whole body had been tense from the moment Wilson had laid down and it was starting to ache in a dull familiar way that was definitely not gonna go away for a few days. “Do you wanna talk about it?” He said it hoping it would be enough to push Wilson over the edge, to taunt him into standing up and storming off.
Something wasn’t right. It wasn’t only about Wilson being shifty, about him crowding Greg’s space to annoy him. House could tell in the way James had been shuffling his feet all day long, frowning and mumbling to himself when he thought nobody was watching. And of course because of the crooked tie and the coffee stain on his collar. If Wilson was okay he would’ve changed the second he saw it and he had clearly seen it considering he very notably- and doing a frankly shit job- had tried to scrub it out only making it look worse, the collar of his shirt wrinkled and stained. He could tell because despite the many broken, drunk and lonely moments they had together, Wilson had never pressed himself against House like this . Not hot and heavy, a mistake they can pretend never happened. This was intentional. James had never once tried so bluntly and pathetically to beg for care that House could not give.
“I lost a patient.” Wilson said, catching Greg by surprise. “I know, I don’t need to hear it, House. I just-- She was young and strong and I really thought…” House shifted around, flexing his cramp fingers that had been grabbing at his jeans. His other arm was starting to hurt with both the weight of his and Wilson’s head but he didn’t move. “I don’t want to go home.”
House breathed in, nodding, his head sliding a little, accidentally pressing his chin against the crown of Wilson’s head. He was aware of how reactive he felt, how the panic that hunted him his entire life was starting to bend his knee for the big jump. How he was about to snap. “You don’t have to,” he moved forward, trying to push James away, because he couldn’t do it, not this. “I, however--”
“Don’t.” Wilson's voice was barely a whisper. “Just. Just stay, House.”
So he did.
***
At some point his heartbeat calmed down. Dr. Shelby had cured the patient and saved the day, both getting with a young resident and sacrificing his own relationship with Dr. Fernandez. House had started to doze off and he didn’t entirely know what he was doing as he reached with his free hand, pressing his fingertips against Wilson’s elbow. His friend shifted at the touch, both of their bodies rearranging, getting closer. It was too late to look into it and when James grabbed his hand and brought it under his chin, over his heart, House relaxed. The tension mellow down, letting himself melt, hold onto it.
***
Someone was gently shaking him.
“House”
He groaned, his body sizing with pain from sleeping in a tight fit. Both of his arms seemed to be trapped and when he tried to pull he felt the heavy grip of someone's hands pulling closer.
“House,” The voice above him whispered again and it was the stiff Australian accent that woke him the fuck up.
He opened his eyes as the horror of the situation fell on him. Chase's blue eyes were amused but surprisingly calm as he stared down at them. He didn’t seem bothered, shocked or otherwise taken aback. He guessed it made sense, for all that Chase was a fuckin moron he was quick on some uptakes.
“Daddy and mommy are sleeping, what do you want?”
Chase's raised eyebrow and soft smile made House want to punch him again. “The labs came out clean. It 's not chagas.”
“Who could’ve predicted that?”
“Should we--”
“Do what Foreman said.”
“But--”
“It’s his birthday, let’s make him happy.”
“His birthday was three months ago.”
“Sweet how you remembered. Did you have a romantic dinner out?”
“House?”
Wilson stirred, letting go of him. He clocked Chase first, eyes opening wide, snapping awake in a clumsy sleep haze that should’ve been funny if it wasn’t for the sudden fear that took over House’s body. “What--What time is it?”
“Seven.” Chase said, calm and distinctively unbothered.
“Shit.” Wilson grunted while sitting up and--
Not moving further. House was still laying back, prey of his own fear and the frozen vertigo that possessed his body everytime he found himself in close proximity to intimacy. Wilson stared at him, trying to catch up to whatever he had missed. Shouldn’t Wilson run? Just as afraid to be discovered in whatever fucked up weak display of vulnerability Chase had just walked in?
But he didn’t. And somehow, that was way worse.
“So,” Chase said, clearing his throat. “Do I run--”
“Yes.” House's voice came out all wrong and he cringed at it internally. “Yeah, what are you waiting for, you want that kid to bleed out?”
Chase frowned, like he was trying to understand exactly what was wrong with him and House felt the urge to scream. Almost like he could sense it, he nodded and hurried away.
House wondered why he quit vicodin to begin with as the world seemed both too sharp and too dull all at once. Wilson was a warm presence next to him, his silence far more condemning than any sad attempt at untangling House’ growing tension. So he says, “Do you wanna get some breakfast?” and hopes to god the answer is no.
And yet Wilson’s replies, with a smile that could be heard, “You pay.”
***
House didn’t pay in the end because they didn’t have breakfast. When House opened the freezer to retrieve his beeper, Foreman walked inside the lounge, anger and something cold exuding right out of him. “House--”
“I know, I know, save the monologue, let’s get this old lady a new life.” He didn’t turn around to look at Wilson, bumping against Foreman and making him turn around to follow.
“He’s a boy and he’s fifteen!”
***
House avoided Wilson for four weeks after that.
4,
Mark Cirio was a sixty year old patient who refused to let go of the past and had made the habit to send House extravagant gifts every 7 of march- the very same day House made the mistake not to let him die.
On the anniversary of the ten year mark, Cirio sent him a small box with a disgustingly long letter and a couple of keys. He took the package right to Wilson the moment he discovered it.
“My stalker did it again.” House proclaims, tossing the box in Wilson’s direction. His friend caught it, his eyes snapping wide as he opened it, eyes scheming over the papers. “Wanna go fishing?”
“He gave you a house?”
Greg wiggled his eyebrows, “Summer home, actually.” House walked around the desk, resting in front of Wilson, barely sitting on the man’s desk. Wilson’s eyes landed on House hands as he was placing the cane in between his legs, fingers closing around the handle. It was dragged out and it made the back of Greg’s neck prickle. He had seen Wilson pull this same exact move before, with him mainly. It was the male equivalent of Cuddy's bending over. The way in which Wilson looked up didn’t dissipate the warmth feeling in Greg’s stomach, if anything made it much worse. The honey brown eyes traveled up, settling in House’s own. “You cannot accept this.”
“He said you would say that,” Greg leaned closer, choosing the page and pointing to the particular extract where Mark asked House not to be dissuaded by Wilson’s humble nature. Follow it by the shy request that Greg take his friend along if he ever chose to give use to his new property. The grounds- it said- where gonna be attended by a staff paid annually by Mr. Cirio. “You think you can take two weeks off?”
Wilson barked out a laugh. “House--”
“Wilson--”
“A weekend.” Wilson stops him, leveling with a stare. “Tops.”
****
The beach house was not half as luxurious as the letter made it sound. For one, it was more of a fishing shack than a summer home. Whichever staff Mr. Cirio seemed to be paying, not particularly worried about sweeping if the mountains of sand that were piling up in every corner were any indication.
“The photos made it look much nicer.” Wilson said, dropping his bag. The car ride had been a nightmare and after several stops, a couple screaming matches and one single hit of House’s cane against the headlights of Wilson’s car later they were both on edge and ready to snap at one another.
“This may be a bad time to tell you I don’t fish.”
“Requires staying quiet so no wonder.” James snapped, opening the windows and letting the light in.
The house was small and rustique in a way that wasn’t charming and it was if anything reminiscent of Evil Dead. The kitchenette in the living room was rusty but functional and there was food for a week or so- which meant the further mentioned staff at least had done something. What they had very clearly neglected was the room. Of course neither Wilson nor House had time to check on it- both of them choosing to make themselves scarce. Wilson took off running, his sport short mocking House as he laid in the sand, his leg cramping with pain as he smoked a stolen joint and burnt his skin to crisp. James kicked House awake a couple of hours later. The sun was coming down, hiding behind the water as the waves crashed relentlessly, the shore had climbed closer to Greg’s sleeping body and he could feel the sand under him starting to get wet.”You are gonna mess up your back, man,” Wilson crouch down, pushing a finger against Greg’s forehead “Did you really not use the sunscreen I left for you?”
“Unless you plan on sucking my cock or doing my laundry you don’t get to act like my wife or my mother.” House tried to sit down without wincing and failed, letting his friend help him up. His skin was tense and he could imagine exactly which shade of bright red he currently looked like.
“Freud would love you.”
Greg flinched as James hand landed on his neck, both the pain of his skin and the closeness that followed made him wince. It was not their first vacation together and more likely than not it would not be their last and yet House was always a bit surprised by the change in demeanor that overtook Wilson two hours close to any big body of water. The yapping and complaining subside just enough to leave a drunk bubbly mess in place of his friend. And even though neither of them had had a drink yet and therefore lacked the proper excuse, Wilson was already getting too close to Greg's personal space. He could fool anyone else into believing he was simply helping House up but they knew each other far too well. This was part of Wilson During Vacations. This was why Greg didn’t enjoy them. While James neglected most normal hedonistic pleasures during the year he abused them to filth during their small scapes. Wilson would drink, eat, smoke, fuck and do just about anything he felt like for the very well pre planned next two days and then would be sharp and awake on monday to be back at being an upstanding citizen.
Which wasn’t a problem, if anything it was the reason they became friends to begin with.
The problem was that when Wilson finally took care of his hedonistic pleasures there seemed to be an undoubtedly dubois amount of touch between them. A hand on Greg’s neck, on his should, his shoulder blades, a knuckle tracing his spine, fingertips brushing his forearm, his hands, his tight---
“Jesus on a cross, Greg, where did you get that?” Wilson sniffed at him without clarifying he was referring to the weed House had indeed stolen from James' own office. “You smell like a skunk.”
“Are you jealous?”
“Just enough.”
House chuckled, pulling the roach out of his front pocket and offering it to James who lowered his head, opening his mouth just enough for Greg to put the filter in between his lips. Lighting it was less of a hassle than House expected- boxing Wilson with his own body to keep the wind out. He only had a brief chance to get a face full of the smell of James perfume and sweat before the smoke filled up his nose. The perfume was his summer pic which was House less favorite -some 90’ Armani with a crystal white bottle. Wilson did not need that amount of citrus on his skin. Greg had stolen Wilson’s jar for a small period of time, mainly because Cuddy liked it. When James found out he told him it didn’t suit House’s, because apparently his skin was too oily and the perfume was too strong. They coughed their way back to the shack as the sun finally disappeared behind them. House let James put an arm around his back and take on his weight. It wasn’t completely abnormal for them, not on vacation at least. Sure, on a regular day Wilson may walk a step too fast so House had to catch up not without some pain. It was intentional and generally as a revenge for whatever Greg had chosen to do that day to piss James off. But during vacation? Well, House could easily still annoy his friend but the payback tended to look less justifiable. In a way, Greg knew Wilson hand around his waist was payback for stealing the weed, the same way his thumb barely brushing the naked patch between his shirt and pants was revenge for pissing on a bottle in the car trip, and the way in which he lowered Greg down as they sat in the rackety wicker couch in the front porch, pushing him on the chest and getting just in between his knees was payback for generally breathing in his near vicinity. Or so he guessed. The other option was that Wilson just got touchy while high. Or drunk. Which was in order for business.
“Why don’t you bring that scotch out?” House said, stretching his legs and rolling his shoulders.
“Shake the sand off and come drink inside.” Wilson was already stomping on the front door. It brought back a distant memory of House’s Egyptian dogs shaking their playday off right before coming inside the house. It was wrong, in his opinion, for a man in his middle age to look quite as happy and simplistic as Wilson did with his jogging clothes on and his honey brown eyes bloodshot. Greg blamed the dryness of his throat entirely on the weed.
****
“You gonna intoxicate yourself with water,”
“I have not drink remotely as much--”
“You have drink at least ten of those, which if you make the math--”
“It’s like 2 liters, which is the healthy amount for an adult currently drinking half a scotch”
“It’s actually 4 liters, Pitagoras, and you are gonna end up shitting yourself to death.”
At this Wilson narrowed his eyes, putting the bottle down and tilting his head as he decided whether he preferred to kill himself over losing a small argument or not. And because he wasn’t House, he picked up the glass of scotch and down it. “Dehydration, baby.”
House laughter came more like a bark and Wilson seemed a bit dazzled. They were on their fifth round of poker. Wilson was fixing the deck of cards into his hands for a new game when Greg broke a sardonic and cruel smile that usually meant trouble. “We should up the stakes.”
“The winner chooses their bedroom first.”
“The loser sends Cuddy a dick pic?” House offers up instead.
“The loser choses the bedroom last?” Wilson rebutted. “And for the record, that’s sexual harassment.”
“The loser calls Cuddy--”
“I’ll stop you right there, that’s probably sexual harassment.” Wilson shuffled the cards.
“The winner smokes the next dubby.”
“The winner gets to save the dubby in question for its actual legal purpose.” Wilson sailed House’s cards with ease. His fingers were quick, fluttering over the deck.
“The loser gets a pity joint”
“The loser has to shut up for the rest of the weekend.”
“The winner pays for all the meals for the rest of the year.”
Wilson looked down at his cards and grinned “What about good old strip poker. Unless your masculinity is too sensible for that?”
“Some dick and balls is what you call high stakes?”
Wilson just needed to raise an eyebrow for House to bite.
****
By the time they were done, House was completely naked with the exception of his boxer, left sock and the scarf he had put on second before they started the game. Wilson was still wearing his jogging clothes, only his hoodie and shoes and socks missing.
“If you want to take this further you gonna have to serve me up with some inspiration Wilson.”
House meant weed. Wilson took off his shirt without saying a single word. Which did the trick to deflect away from Greg’s actual demand for two whole seconds before he was already opening his mouth. Wilson- who was trying to play it cool but was starting clearly about to lose if his distraction tactics where anything to go by- let out an exasperated groan before barking “You have the fuckin thing, just light it up for christ sake, are you even trying to win”?
“My masculinity is intact and the stakes have never been higher,” House said as a none-answer putting the blunt on his mouth and lighting it with a cheap purple lighter they had found on top of the fridge. The smoke filled House lungs, the rackety room a speck brighter. Wilson was smiling. It wasn’t odd, necessarily. They laughed and smiled plenty. And yet it was always in between frustration, sickness, the smell of hospital, blood, puke, disinfectants, the confused and terrified eyes of the people they were promising to help. Wilson smiles were not rare but they were rarely honest. The soft edge to his face warms up by the haze of alcohol and the heat of summer. House suddenly wished they were outside. He passed the blunt and played his worst hand yet.
****
The water was lukewarm and the beach was deserted. Which was good cuz they were both their boxers, the bottle being passed back and forward as they talk nonsensically. They laid on their backs, their feet buried in the sand as the water tried to pull them in. Everyday Wilson would have remarked how idiotic it was to swim high and drunk in the middle of the night when neither of them were particularly good swimmers to begin with. Vacation Wilson was currently taking a long sip of scotch and holding onto House’s forearm with his other hand, fingertips barely touching skin.
“Ethically speaking, I don’t believe it’s appropriate for you to receive gifts like this,” Wilson snapped his tongue. “Honestly I’m not sure why it’s even legal.”
“The house is a dump and it makes him feel better about the fact he makes millions per month while we do actual--”
“Oh, that’s pathe--”
“--lly important work and are overworked and underpaid.”
“Does he give houses to the nurses that work with him?”
“Well, no, the guy is a dick. That’s why it doesn’t matter if I have ethical principles or not.”
“Eye for an eye, Gregory.”
“The world is already blind, James.”
****
By the time they walked back to the house they were already drunker than they had been in at least the last couple of years. Which was saying something. Wilson was giddy, his hair drying and his skin looking pale under the moonlight. Greg felt too old and incredibly young. The second part was pure delusion but the first was noticeable as he used his friend for support. They were all skin and House wondered if sober this would have bothered him like sharing a bed did. If it would have triggered a sense of danger. A vulnerability and comfort he didn’t extend often. He could see his scars, see Wilson’s own legs, strong from spending his whole life on his feet running from one emergency to another. James was getting old too, his body was not the same as when they first met. House could recall when his friend was all lean muscle and dimples. Wilson would get shirtless in his first shitty apartment with no AC and pace barefoot, wearing jeans instead of dressing pants. Age suited him well, in Greg's opinion anyway. All the dripping beauty of youth had settled in something less bewildering and more harmonic. When House’s eyes trailed upwards, slowly scanning his friend's stomach, hands, arms and chest, Wilson chuckled. “What?” House's voice sounded foreign and when their eyes met he felt something akin to embarrassment which was not all that common for him.
Wilson just laughed. “You are staring at me.”
Greg blink, confused “I am always staring at you.”
****
Around 2am House sat on the porch and smiled like a lunatic when Wilson came back with a skinny joint, two bottles of water and another bottle of scotch.
“Three is good for the heart.”
“You should have gone for ‘ doctors order ’ that one never gets old.”
After Wilson forces the water down House’s throat they smoke. Wilson put on the radio and they both cringe as Katy Perry starts playing. Neither of them makes a move to change it.
****
House- unlike the majority of people- adored going to bed drunk. There was something about spinning darkness that amuse him, his body catching up to the alcohol and the sleep so very welcome as his face and body went numb. He had taken the room Wilson had prepared with fresh sheets before getting inside the shower. The sunburn skin felt cold against the soft fabric and the smell of their- Wilson’s- laundry soap was painfully familiar. House had brushed his teeth on the kitchen sink and had given a single hit to the only roach left in the table so his mouth tasted pleasantly like mint and weed and the open window let the sea air in. House couldn’t remember feeling this content in a long while.
****
The bed sank and groaned under someone else's weight. It wasn’t a particularly good mattress but House was certain it didn’t curve to his left quite like this when he first got into bed. Wilson grunted, the smell of clean skin making House hum in agreement, turning towards the man. It wasn’t an invitation. And yet… And yet he wasn’t surprised that James took it as such. It was not an invitation because House had never needed--- House wasn’t sure he wanted--It wasn’t up for debate. Old habits. But Wilson smelled so well, not like perfume but cream and soap, coconut shampoo and something else…
“You smoke more?” House asked, voice dry.
Wilson giggled and even though it wasn’t an invitation, put an arm on Greg’s stomach, his face suddenly pressed against House's collarbone. The burnt skin thanked the cold touch of Wilson's cold and fresh face. And still House froze. His heart must have pick up because Wilson laughed again, his hand coming under House’s shirt and closing tight. They had done this before. Not many times. They had gotten drunk and high and touch. Touch for hours avoiding sleep. Drink until the black out was inevitable. Drinking so much their own bodies would do the punishment for the mistakes they were about to make. It happened the very first time they met. They had gone back to House’s after he bail James out, had gotten plaster and landed on the bed. House actually doesn’t remember much of it. Glimpses, more so. James' mouth, hot against his neck, pressing kisses of his own. Embarrassingly. not on Jame’s long torso or lean arms but on his face. On his freckles and dimples, because they were- then and now- far more fascinating than the rest of his body. The reasons for a display of such sad fuckery were too elemental to try to quantify or explain beyond the fact that-- House had wanted to do it. So he had done it. A fact that he wanted to erase and couldn’t. And sadly he could also remember it. Sometimes the memory would make House freeze in shame. He felt the pain the next day too. Which turned him on and filled him with something far sicker than shame. He liked it. James had woken up in the living room and had pad down the hallway, knocking on House’s door. They both pretended nothing had happened. The second time they were older. James was married but House couldn’t remember to who. He does remember, however, that he was the one to make the first move. They had stumbled out of a stripclub, a Marlboro hanging from House’s mouth and when Wilson lit it- instead of nagging him about smoking- House had thrown the cigarette to the floor and grabbed his friend by the neck. They kissed in the dark and jerk each other off in a probably pathetic display of drunk mistakes. The third time was after the infraction. House only remembers the pain. Fourth was the night Stacy left him. Wilson had made the first move then and it was probably why it never happened a fifth time. Except… Well, except that Wilson's hand was on his face and House was pretty sure that also counted as a move.
James' mouth tasted like toothpaste and weed. House smiles into it and chases the fifth.
****
The thing was, House and Wilson had never stayed in the same bed after. The time and a half they had fucked close to a bed Wilson had made himself scarce before falling asleep. Anyways, lately it has been happening more often. Not the sex. That was new. Technically not, and their fifth round hadn't been that different from the previous one, alcohol and weed still heavily involved. But they are sleeping together. The panic wasn’t entirely gone. As ridiculous as that was. Wilson had just curved his finger inside of him and yet the perspective of falling asleep next to him, not even touching, both of them too overheated for that , was making the comedown of weed, greasy food, alcohol and overdoing his body to feel a lot like dead. He could not afford a panic attack. He was worn out and wanted to crawl away from the dark blur that was crowding his brain, the pain of his leg shooting hot and impatient. “Fuck.”
“Hurts?” Wilson asked from his side of the bed.
There was a beat. “Yes.”
“Mm,” Wilson hand found his tight and started massaging it softly. “Something else?”
House needed a second before understanding “Shut the fuck up-”
Wilson's laugh seemed to clear the fog for a moment. The burning touch of his fingers, giving pain and then relief, over and over again. House breath in and out for what could be hours. The sun was coming through the windows and House wondered if maybe Wilson would stay touching his tight even after he fell asleep. If this giving and taking of their was meant to last much longer or if they had just severed the last plausible deniability.
****
In the great game of chess that was their relationship, House had never really hoped for Wilson to be the one smoking a joint early in the morning. “It’s the afternoon.” James looked younger like that. He was wearing a plane mustard shirt and blue jeans. When was the last time House had even seen the man wearing jeans? “College?”
“Uh?” James stretched a hand. A coffee mug. Milk and sugar. Of course.
“What’s this Matthew McConaughey--” House pointed at Wilson’s general direction.
“Lost for words?” Wilson cut him off, smiling sharply. That wasn’t good. Wilson was smoking weed, but they were old enough to know weed alone doesn’t make you flirt with your best buddy just because. “That’s a first.”
They were too old for the game. Too old to try it one more time. Their relationship had changed like their bodies. It was not necessarily bad. Growing was generally perceived as a good thing. House had never been quite that good at it. The thing about both their age and their relationship was, that with every second, they were also irrevocably closer to death.
“Where are the car keys?”
Wilson’s smug face dropped. “What for?”
“An emergency. Foreman needs me back at the hospital.”
Wilson laughed, all bitterness and anger. Not even an attempt at performing what they both knew was a necessity. They had known each other for decades, they had supported each other for as long and it wasn’t held together by Wilson not putting on his part as well. They had a rhythm. But now Wilson was defying it. Because Wilson always pushed it too far. Always tried to face fear with his own horror so transparent on his face House needed to look away. If it was up toWilson, they would have woken up curled around each other in the shitty couch of House’s first apartment. They would have gotten back to bed together after the stripclub. They would have spent his whole recovery watching shitty movies while Wilson sucked his dick even if he couldn’t get it up. He would have moved in and thrown away Stacy's things and put his own. If it was up to Wilson they were gonna smoke and have breakfast, replay the same lazy day in a haze of Wilson’s food and House’s commentary. They would end up fucking again and it would destroy them eventually. Or, Wilson would not do any of that. Greg didn’t know, not really. He had never given the other man the opportunity. Because House much preferred to beat it to the punch and rip the band-aid while it was still fresh. So he just frowns, aloof. “Dope fried your brain, Wilson?” He waited for an answer but when all he got was a chuckle he continued, pulling out his phone. “Let me call them back to tell them Wilson won’t let me go save that little baby because he’s worried I’m not gonna text him back after--”
House had been too committed with the dramatics to fully pay attention to Wilson’s reaction. So when the keys hit him square on the face at full speed he stumbles, an actual yelp of pain leaving his lips. It was humiliating. He looked at Wilson, anger coming in fast, the man was red, eyes hard and looking completely silly. “Ouch?!” House shouted, unsure what to do.
“For how long are we gonna do this, man?” Wilson talked low and steady. He was angry but he sounded exactly like he often did when he told people they were gonna die. Soon.
“Well, I’m leaving early but you are welcome to-”
“House,”
“--stay for as long as you want. Tho if you go thru with the hookers please do wash the sheets--”
“Greg, please.”
How fucking sad. How pathetic, both of them. Circling each other like wounded dogs. It was just a game of fetch but House spook easily. He always had, and old dogs can’t learn new tricks. He feels like a little kid again, an uncomfortable teen, a mess of a man. He feels exposed and he wants to run. More so, he wants to bite.
“Wilson for fuck sake you put your dick inside of me but I’m not one of your girlfriends.” House can’t look at James as he says it. Can’t tolerate what kind of face he may pull as he finally says out loud what they have kept quiet for decades. Kneeling down to grab the keys feels humiliating enough. Penance enough. Later on he would try to remember driving away and couldn’t.
They didn’t speak for a month after that.
****
5,
They never really recovered from it.
Things went back to normal, in the way it does when you can feel the ending creeping in. House recalls feeling similar for months after Kutner killed himself. A notion of morality that was unbearable. Nowadays he thought more about Kutner but less about his death, which was remarkable all things considered. A bizarre thought about sharing a bed with Kutner came to him while riding in the backseat of Thirteen's car. She was driving them back from the Christmas party. Wilson was to his right, not speaking to him, his face hard as he stared outside. House had done something to piss him off but not even then did he know exactly what. Chase had fallen asleep and was using House as a pillow. It didn’t feel like anything. The man smelled like wine and a cologne that was only acceptable because he was the hottest person in the room at any given second but it didn’t make House tense like the presence of Wilson at his right did. Foreman took a photo of them and they put used straws that Foreman- after House insisted for long enough- had found on the floor on Chase’s mouth. Foreman was drunk enough that he played along. House had looked at Chase’s then and wondered how could have been so afraid of something so simple. Wonder if he wasted something like this with Kutner. Not only because he couldn’t sleep with a man, of course. Because he simply--
Well.
It didn’t really matter, anymore, did it?
That night was the first time they talked about buying or renting something together. Things had never recovered but they were back at playing their parts. They could make do with what they had left.
They moved together nevertheless. House actually had fun playing a gay couple for a laugh, feeling euphoric that Wilson would get riled up, not for him but her, maybe for the both of them. It was easy enough distraction not to think too hard about the two bedrooms and the stupidity of it all. What for? What kind of woman-- Not even, person would walk into their home and not clock the dysfunctional Anne Rice little fantasy they had going on. They were no longer young, it was not charming to see them bicker and banter, always a step too close. Cuddy had steer clear of them as a duo for a reason. She could handle them separately just fine. Together she was bothered. Annoyed by the loud, eager and possessive displays of bull-shit masculinity that led nowhere. It was an endless fruitless outgoing bit that was draining them both.
House could hear him talk to Amber still.
And that, unlike seeing him getting riled up for their hot neighbor-- That did not feel good.
They never spoke about it. Not Amber. But the fact that their little get away trip had been during Amber. It had been an added guilt. Worse, House hadn't even thought about her. Not once. At many points they had fumbled with each other in the dark while Wilson was married. House was too prideful to confess he couldn’t even remember to who.
They hadn't just fumble in the night, though. Things were never clear between them. The lines where something ended and the other began. Who was holding the leash. It was a mutual destruction situation. If Wilson dared to comment on what they had-- Have, then he would also be forced to speak out loud all the flaws he so desperately tried to bury. There was a reason for all those marriages. The desperation of a man trying to prove he can get whoever he wanted for forever even if forever only meant a shotgun wedding and a hefty if not amicable divorce. Wilson had run forward and away from real emotions, from that pledge of loyalty that he had for House, that had ruined his life over and over and over again, he ran straight into the prettiest girl in the room and serenates them with big brown eyes and the charm of genuine kindness. Wilson was perfect but overall he was truly and well fucked up. He was rotten, needy, selfish, desperate for love and approval and too gluttonous to stop. Was it really what stopped House? Was the idea--- The notion that maybe part of the thrill was the avoidance. The impossibility. He had Wilson because he withheld himself from him. Almost entirely. Wilson's life revolved around House and House could only tolerate it for bursts of emotions. He was starving too. But he couldn’t speak about it either. He couldn’t because why would he? At this point where they had already fucked each other in all ways possible, why? They were too old. They had too many bad habits and they loved each other too much.
It took House a whole year before he knocked on Wilson’s door.
*****
“Whatever it is I don’t care,” Wilson said as House walked into the room. All the lights were off and the only thing House could see was the silhouette of his body. Wilson was bigger than expected, muscle and round edges. House body felt numb for the first time in a while, the pain gone and the uncertainty taking over. The reason he walked in was, simply, because he wanted to. He wanted it just as bad as he wanted vicodin despite not being in pain. There was no reason to share a bed with Wilson. There was no reason to speak out loud about the things they had hidden from one another. There was no reason for Wilson to have stayed for all those years and for House to come back every single time. There was no reason and yet House wanted.
It was shameful. That was the problem. He felt disgusting, not because Wilson was a man, not because he grew up with a bigot father and homophobic friends but because he always believed he could be good enough to avoid Wilson the pain of being loved by him. House had no understanding of how to love and over the decades he only got worse, he got clingier and needier and Wilson was always overly ready to jump when House declared the game was afoot.
All that said, House never asked.
Not once did he actually ask Wilson why he did it? House knew why. It was horrifying and humiliating but for all that House wanted to believe Wilson’s constant failure in other relationships was about him, he had been told before he could be a bit too self centered. And more importantly, why did Wilson not talk about it? It wasn’t for House’s sake. Not by now. When they were young it could have been. Wilson used to be fearful of boring House, of becoming another dull coworker House took no delight in pestering. They were too old to play gay chicken. And there was no good reasons as to why House should seat on the edge of Wilson bed and chuckled, closing his fist over his cane once, twice, three, four--
“House?” James turned around, taking off his sleep mask pushing his hair everywhere. It had been thinking lately, House noticed. Wilson had bought even more bullshit to avoid it falling off and House had felt something hot and heavy in his chest, like liquid that slip right to his throat and left him choking for air. The light of a neighboring building, with an advertisement for Diazepam flashing multi color splashes over James’ face. “Are you okay?”
“No,” House clears his throat. “Generally speaking I don’t tend to be.”
“Yeah,” Wilson chuckled and let himself fall back against his pillow. “Anything particularly urgent?”
“Were you ever in love with me?”
The second it comes out he knows he fucked up.
“What?” Wilson sat back up, eyes wide open. The blue and purple of the advertisement made him look like a ghost of the kid that House met for the very first time. “House it’s like 3am, this is not--”
“I'm actually asking.” House's voice seems foreign to himself. Honesty was rare for him. It was thundering and it scared him.
“Why?”
“Just answer.”
“No, House, why now?”
“Because I want to know.”
Again, the wrong thing to say. House knew Wilson was looking for a way out. He could play pretend, act like it didn’t scare him as much as it did House but they both knew Wilson could have run after him in the beach house. They both knew Wilson could have gotten into bed with House that first night, if he had asked. But neither of them ever did.
“We're gonna have to do this on your schedule too?” Wilson let out a frustrated noise. “Were you?”
“I asked first, come on,”
“Give me this one win,” The words were short and heavy, Wilson was not looking at House’s face, eyes stuck on House’s hand over the cane, opening and closing, opening and closing. “After all these years, just this one.”
House rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so over dramatic, Jesus,” He closed his hand around the cane one more time. “Of course, are you fucking kidding me? I've been saying it for years.”
“House this is not the time for you to fuck with me--”
“I’m not.” He let go of the cane. It crashed against the floor and it rattled. His hand felt sweaty and it was probably not the nicest touch on earth, it was certainly a bit delayed and more than a bit rotten but House offered his hand anyways. Wilson stared at it. Confused. “I can do the When Harry Met Sally new years party scene if you want to?”
“Both lines?” James asked.
“Well, if I have to, I can. Gotta say Billy Crystal is a bit out of my style but I’m a knock out Meg Ryan.”
“You haven’t said it once.”
“I told you I love you before.”
“No,” Wilson shook his head, the shiny gleam of a fight rolling in. “House you wanted drugs out of me that is not--”
“Okay. Fuck. I didn’t. Why would I?”
“What?”
House pulled his hand back, pressed it against his tight. Pain shut up his body, his brain felt out of reach and he couldn’t put words together. Not like he would have liked. “Why the fuck would I tell the only person that stands me the one thing that would send him running?”
“You did everything but tell me and I didn’t run.”
“Exactly my point.”
“No.” Wilson moved closer, his hand sneaking up House’s back, settling on his neck. “There is a difference between cause and reason.”
“Again you are proving my point?”
“How?”
“Wilson, at what point in between your several attempts at marrying someone functional was I supposed to tell you to-- What? What was I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know.” Wilson shrugs, defeated. “What do you want to say?”
House was an old dog and maybe that is why he just said “I’m sorry.”
Wilson nods, slowly. There a few seconds where House thinks he should leave. Wilson had kissed him, fucked him and stay by his side but Wilson had never said he wanted it. Wilson was quietly looking at him while shades of purple and pink danced on his eyelashes and House felt pain again but it wasn’t enough to numb the panic in his chest. Before he could stand up Wilson scooted a bit, opening the blanket. “Me too. All of it.” Wilson frowned afterwards. “Except that I can do Billy Crystal without breaking a sweat--”
“Oh, and it’s not because you are lonely?”
“And it’s not because it’s new years.” Wilson assured him and then it wasn’t so difficult to get inside the bed.
+1,
House wasn’t a man of many rules. He didn’t care if Wilson stared at women, he didn’t really care if Wilson kissed him goodbye or held his hand in the street, he didn’t oppose it either. He liked that Wilson did care when he looked at women, and he liked that Wilson blush when he kisses him goodbye and good morning. House was an old dog and so was Wilson, and if House is correct they would probably never stop barking and biting at each other. They didn’t like to admit how much cliches suit them but learning a new trick had never been a downer. So if House could learn to enjoy sleeping next to the same person every night, or most nights, some afternoons, middays and catnaps in other departments' lounge rooms-- Well, then surely all old dogs can learn to break a bad habit or two.