Work Text:
Where House is a wild storm, violent winds and unpredictable behavior like tearing teeth, Wilson is the pull that is just as beckoning, just as magnetic—lingering touches and soft kisses down House's spine, harsh notches soothed with a gentle tongue and even gentler words. Wilson calls him baby when they fuck, touches his hair and kisses him when he comes. Wilson is gentle and he is the only person who House lets into the eye of his hurricane; the only person he'd allow to be so plainly tender .
It feels spiritual, with Wilson. House isn't a religious man by any means; has always found devotion to a higher power almost perverse. He supposes that now he's the perverse one, the want want want like a prayer; on his knees with no inkling of disbelief. The thing that sets him apart from a devout Christian, though, is that this God is one that is forgiving; He is one who will take devotion lovingly and graciously return the favor. He is a God on Earth; a God who will one day be returned to the soil from the stars with no fanfare but wracking sobs, and He loves his humanity.
They don’t talk about it. They spend every night caught in the wild winds of lust (and love? maybe, if House permits it for himself); they fall asleep in each other’s arms content and sticky with sweat, and even though House drifts off to bed with Wilson’s heartbeat pounding through his veins, he still wakes up alone. Usually he can hear Wilson showering; tells himself that he probably just couldn’t deal with the sensation of sweat left on his skin overnight. There's a feeling worming around under his skin, though, that maybe the morning hits and Wilson just doesn't—maybe he just doesn't want it anymore?
And House doesn't understand, he really doesn't, how even when Wilson calls him baby and licks a stripe from his collarbone to his mouth; even when sometimes House is falling asleep and he can feel those stupid doe eyes tracing relaxed lines, Wilson still doesn't want this. How can he perform an action so full of love (because it isn't just sex like House is used to, this is the famed Making Love, or at least it seems to be) and wake up the next morning with sun coming in through the curtains; birds singing, and not let the love stay where it is—tucked safe inside his ribs but with House's desperate fingers clenching tight to bloody flesh.
House isn't necessarily upset by this, no. He's just—he feels uneasy , he supposes is the word. It’s a puzzle that, for the first time probably ever, he can’t figure out.
“House,” Wilson says, poking his head out from the bathroom. Steam rushes out; the fragrant smell of his girl shampoo. “Where is my hair dryer?”
House knows. “I don’t know. You think it grew legs and walked outta here? That’d be funny.”
Wilson narrows his eyes. His hair is very wet. Did he even towel dry it? “Where’d you put it.”
“I didn’t put it anywhere!” House insists; widens his eyes. He knows Wilson can see right through him—the routine is routine, though, so why change it? What kind of day would it be if House didn’t get to play around? Wilson’s hair is dripping on the nice hardwood floor, though, so House decides that his shenanigans (who is he, ‘shenanigans’? he’s spent too much time with the fellows,) can wait for later. He sighs. “It’s in my room.”
Wilson sighs too. “Why?”
“Why not?”
“Right, dumb of me to even ask. Can you get it for me?”
“You want the cripple to walk across the apartment? When he doesn’t even need to? Fine, but it’s your fault if my legs give out.”
“Once again, dumb of me to even ask. Close your eyes.”
“What do you mean, ‘close your eyes’? Wilson, are you going senile?” House mocks concern. Bedside manner suddenly comes easily when he can make a caricature out of it. “We had some wild gay sex last night, I’m sorry to break it to you. I've seen you naked!”
“Yeah, sure, it was wild,” Wilson laughs. “We’re not flexible enough anymore for it to be ‘ wild’ .”
“Well maybe we should’ve been doing it when we were young and nimble,” House says solemnly.
Wilson pauses. “Yeah, maybe we should’ve.”
(And that, there, is another piece of the puzzle: it sounds sentimental; sounds tender. House is going to spend the rest of the morning trying to decipher it.)
They spend each night together for nearly a month. It’s not always sex and though on the nights they spend just watching TV and falling asleep together, House complains (in typical House fashion; puts on a show), he treasures them maybe beyond the sex.
There truly is something to be said for the little things; little moments—House doesn't want to be sappy, no, or cliche, but when their legs touch under the covers while they watch soaps, and when Wilson makes dinner for them like some kind of housewife, House gets those stupid, stupid butterflies in his stomach. He's not in the sixth grade, nor is he Cameron, so calling it a crush is stupid—essentially, though, it is one: his breath catches when the light hits Wilson's pooling brown eyes just right; he stares across the room; his heartbeat thump thump thumps in his wrists when Wilson talks to him. He's got all the textbook symptoms and the diagnosis is less shocking than he thinks it should be—it's not oh, what the fuck, i have a thing for wilson, instead, it's oh, yeah, that explains it.
And so now House has the diagnosis, and it should be easy to treat from there. But of course, it's Wilson, and they are like a storm and its eye; tight and cautious, yellow like the end of the world but warm like you never want to leave. And the sex should be the cure, it always has been, and suddenly it just isn't. Suddenly it's not all there is; there is an intimacy like the burning tip of incense that gets further and further from House's desperate, clenching fingers as every day goes on. They are the most intimate House knows how to be, and it isn't enough.
There are moments, like with the hairdryer, when Wilson will mention the moonlight and House perks up like a dumb mutt; he keeps these moments tucked tight to his heart and files them away for reference. He wants to write it all down on the whiteboard; analyze it . Foreman would probably give him that stupid are-you-fucking-serious look, though, and Cameron try to psychoanalyze him and his big dumb crush even though House has made it very clear: psychoanalyzing is not her thing. Chase would make a sound like a wounded puppy, probably, keening and knee-jerk. House cannot use the whiteboard.
This limbo goes on for weeks; angry push and pull like waves crashing on the sand and rug burn on their knees. House has to wear a turtleneck more than once (you look nice in that shirt. thanks, it's your fault i had to wear it. This gets filed away too.). They go on dates, except they aren't dates because they've done it all before. Wilson has always bought him food; they've always gone to see monster trucks or to the fair. It's upsettingly the same.
It’s frustrating because House wants more, yeah, but there’s also a sense of woah, why is this the thing House can’t figure out? And he can’t bother Wilson about it because he’s confused about Wilson; he can’t bother Cuddy or the fellows because they’d inevitably spill to Wilson. So he tries to work it out inside, but the metaphors don’t really work when you're telling them to yourself. Well, unless you get shot, but he doesn’t quite want to get shot again just to figure out the puzzle. It’s pathetic, really, how the answer eludes him, and it's starting to feel like he's losing it.
Of course, feeling like he's losing it manifests itself as his leg hurting like a bitch, so he takes more Vicodin and his days become a haze; his nights, too, have an absent sort of quality but its like seeing bright lights with blurry eyes, halos adorning heads with soft hair and edges that melt into each other. Wilson is getting old; he's plush and tender like velvet, and the Vicodin (and manic depression) induced muteness makes him look like a dream. He somehow convinces Wilson to roll him a few joints like he does with his patients (House tries not to compare himself to the people with only a few months to live but they are, upsettingly but not surprisingly, very similar to House); the weed makes the haze dreamier like he wants, but he also starts to remember his nights less clearly so he stops smoking after a few days—he panics when he can't remember how Wilson sounded, keening, and how his hands (moisturized; manicured) felt dragging along his body.
The fellows notice.
“So who's the lucky lady?” Foreman says one morning, with that stupid eyebrow raise. House should fire him, he thinks.
“Your mom,” House replies, ever the juvenile. “We were going to wait to tell you, but I'm just so happy . You deserve to know.”
Foreman rolls his eyes.
“No, really,” Chase says, “You do seem different. He seems different, doesn't he?” He looks to Cameron, who nods. She looks suspicious. House, following Foreman's suit, rolls his eyes.
“There isn't a 'lucky lady.’ There is, though, a right hand, a shower, and a patient with a movement disorder and liver damage. Differential?”
Later in the day, when he's in his office avoiding running tests and clinic duty, Cameron confronts him.
“Really, who is it?” she asks, as if he'll tell her if she says it nicely enough. House gives her a Look. “Is it Cuddy?”
House barks a laugh. “No, but believe me, I've tried. Have you seen her?”
Cameron should roll her eyes, or sigh, but she just looks at House with this look like she thinks she's trying psychoanalyzing him and succeeding. “Is it Wilson?”
And House isn't expecting that one, it hits him off guard like a baseball thrown from outside his peripheral. After a pause, he says, “No. You wish, it would be just like a romance movie. Or a porno, more like it. Romance really isn't our thing.”
At this, Cameron finally does roll her eyes, and she leaves. House is left thinking that he wishes romance were their thing, which really is pathetic.
Wilson gives him chocolates on Valentine's day. Gives him roses; takes him to a nice restaurant and pays the bill without bitching. It is, with no warning whatsoever, the most coupley time House and Wilson have spent together before 10:00 PM, and House can barely enjoy it because it catches him so off guard. Wilson calls him babe in public; makes tender eye contact with him that leaves House squirming; has that lovely, lovely air about him: it's off-putting, to House's dismay. He tries—oh, does he try—to ignore it, but the puzzle overtakes him, and Wilson is crowding him up against the wall when he just. Can't anymore.
“Wilson,” he murmurs, short, against the soft skin of Wilson's neck.
Wilson inhales sharply. “Yeah?”
“Wilson, can you—can you stop.” And he does stop, but his eyes go wide like a doe’s and it breaks House’s heart a little. “What are you doing?”
“What do you think I'm doing?” Wilson narrows his eyes like this is a scheme, or something, and House wishes it was, wishes he could Not Care enough to play a trick. He feels like he’s going to throw up; he finds a pill in his jacket and swallows it quick.
“I don’t.” It’s so rare that House will find himself at a loss but it’s bound to happen sometimes. Maybe he really is losing it. “I don’t know. I don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I think it’s pretty obvious what I'm doing,” Wilson says, as if it really is.
“No, no, it isn't,” and House is freaking out, the Vicodin didn't help, “I've been trying to figure it out. But you just—I just don't know. You're fucking me up, Wilson.”
“I think,” and Wilson says this in the tone he uses when House has done something unbelievably fucking irritating, “You just don't know how to handle that idea that someone could actually want something with you. You're so caught up in your misery; your self loathing, that when something good happens to you that's just—it. You shut down.”
“Wow, I was missing my daily psychoanalyzing! Is it my turn yet?” House sort of wants to die. Himself, in the bathtub, with a knife? Wilson, in the bedroom, with his razor tongue and poison heart?
“Will you just tell me what's wrong?” Wilson yells, “or do I need to fucking beat it out of you? Why are you so, so set on being miserable?”
“I am not ‘set on’ being miserable!” House yells back. “I am miserable! I'm a cripple and an addict and you keep fucking—you treat me like I'm precious, or something,” he says; takes a breath, “you act like you love me during the night. And then we're just Us, the rest of the time. House and Wilson, are they dating or just strangely co-dependent? Wilson, I'm fucking—I'm fucking sick. You make me sick and you make me confused and I can't figure out the puzzle and really, I would like it if you could just tell me what we are!”
“You make it too complicated,” Wilson says. “We don't have to be a puzzle.”
“But we are. Wilson, we are, and I don't know how to solve it.”
“That’s your problem, House. What do I need to do? Wait on you hand and foot?” Wilson shakes his head. “Why won’t you understand that sometimes it’s as simple as someone loves you? You aren’t—you don’t need to be alone.”
“I’m not trying to be.” House hates how small his voice sounds. If only his armor followed him home; if only it stayed where it usually did in the indented muscle of his leg, he could meet Wilson with the same indifference as every other problem; every other solution. The armor, unfortunately, stayed behind when House decided to trail after Wilson; keep him in his pocket for decades. He probably lost it the first time their eyes met.
“I’m going home.”
House just watches as Wilson leaves; sorts his tie and his hair out and closes the door without looking back. He took a Vicodin not even a minute ago but the empty feeling in his stomach; nauseous and all-consuming, makes him pop another without even a second thought.
He doesn’t come back to work the next day. They have a case but he doesn’t pick up his phone; the curiosity, for once, doesn’t burn a hole through his head. He can’t bring himself to care.
Cameron comes to his apartment at four. She sighs when she sees his empty bottle of Vicodin; dresses the cuts on his arms, and she tries to get him to tell her what’s wrong but lets up when he doesn’t answer, and before she leaves she looks back like she’s inviting him to stop her; pull on the hem of her pants and cry to her about heartbreak. He almost wants to stop her, feels the itch in his bones, but he doesn’t. What good would that do him? He wouldn’t be able to cry, anyways; he doesn’t want Cameron to see him like that. There’s a reputation he has to uphold, and complaining about heartbreak isn’t going to do any wonders for it—still, he has that empty feeling in his stomach that so wants him to reach out and say hey, please, i need someone to tell. please listen to me even though i don't deserve it.
He doesn't come in the next day, either, or the next, and he has about a hundred missed calls but can't bring himself to care. The patient lives, apparently. Cuddy is pissed as hell at him the first day and a half but turns worried the next; threatens to come over but never does. She's busy, House guesses, or she knows there's no point.
He comes in on the third day. Spends most of it in his office listening to music; has the blinds closed and barks at the fellows to keep Wilson out. He takes a lot of Vicodin.
All three fellows try to do something; so does Cuddy. Cameron tells him if you ever need to talk, i'm here and luckily she doesn't kiss him like he did when he had cancer, but the hug she tries melting him with feels awfully similar. Chase hits him with a lean in the doorway; y'know, house, you don't have to deal with everything alone. Foreman just brings him a coffee and a look that means more to House than what the others said combined, because a coffee means a smile and warmth spreading through your body and a look, head tilted specifically and eyebrows raised just the right amount for just the right emotion, means looking straight into House's soul and telling him exactly what he means, right to the point. It's more intimate (not that House is looking for intimacy with Foreman, of all people) and it carries greater weight than i'm here if you wanna talk.
Cuddy hugs him, too, but it isn't like Cameron because she knows him well enough to know that just a hug; impersonal and easily copy-and-pasted, means nothing. She just folds him in close, says into the dip between his neck and shoulder wilson told me. let him in. House hugs back, just a second, before cracking a joke he doesn't quite remember and filing away the feeling of gentle eyes meeting his. He doesn't deserve her care, or his fellows, but he lets himself bask in it, if just for a second.
He avoids Wilson, of course. Every time they accidentally meet each other's eyes he feels a pang, simply sad like nothing he's ever known, like it's crawling from his stomach through his esophagus, sharp nails carving angry ridges through his insides. He throws up at least three times per day and so his throat is always stinging; he’s hopped up on Vicodin somehow even more than usual and he finally smokes that weed. The fellows can't stand it, he can tell, but they stay shockingly calm with him. They look at each other when they think he doesn't notice, and the real concern in their eyes makes his stomach lurch every time.
Wilson loves him. That's a part of why it's affecting House so much, he deduces: why does Wilson love him? If Wilson loves him, why aren't they ok? There really is no reason for this to affect House as much as it does—it's a simple problem, with a simple fix, but it fills him with a sense of impending doom like wailing tornado warnings or the sight of a tsunami pulling harsh on the shore; a guttural feeling of fuck, it's over. He’s being dramatic, yeah. He doesn’t know what else to do.
i’m sorry, house. The words bounce around in House’s skull, incessant high-pitched noise. He takes a Vicdoin.
His patient has cancer—terminal, a tumor in her heart that’s on track to kill her within weeks. She’s under Wilson’s care once House and the fellows diagnose her which means, inevitably, interacting with Wilson. Wilson is professional; tells her the worst news of her life that ever-soft demeanor. He barely even looks at House. When he does, though, it's striking—like a doe, her foal caught in incoming traffic, sadness that weighs a thousand tonnes. It makes House's knees buckle. And when they leave her room Wilson catches the sleeve of House's shirt; tugs, and he says it: i'm sorry, house.
House just looks at him; has so much to say but instead of coming through his mouth the words bleed up behind his eyes and threaten to fall as tears. He doesn’t let them, no, he somehow keeps them pushed back, but he feels his hands shaking. He wants to believe Wilson, he does believe Wilson, but what is he to do with that? House is still himself, even if he has Wilson. He will still find a way to sabotage them; will still take the knife under his pillow and slaughter Wilson like the lamb of God.
He wants to run away; never look back. He should quit his job and fake his death, move to Oklahoma and become a hermit. Who could find him? Who would want to? But then, then, Wilson is pulling him into possibly the most devastating hug of House’s life, one where House finally understands what people mean when they say “folded into a hug.” They become one, it seems, and House isn’t sure where Wilson ends and he begins; Wilson’s lips are brushing House’s skin and House thinks the dam will maybe break, or maybe it already has and his silent tears have wet the shoulder of Wilson’s lab coat. They are in the hallway, and House has a pit in his stomach like it’s okay, and maybe it is. Maybe it will be okay, even though House will always have the impulse to arrive with a pocketknife; even though he will always be itching to solve the puzzle. Will he ever really know how he feels? Will he ever be okay with that?
And it seems like he will be. Because this is the most devastating feeling, the fullest one since—probably since forever. It is devastating and it is perfect and he will never let himself ruin it.
They leave work early; head to House’s apartment.
“You should really just move in,” he mumbles against Wilson’s plush stomach, trails his tongue down his happy trail and smiles into his skin.
“Yeah, maybe I should.”
And the sounds Wilson makes are beautiful, and he takes care of House the way he always does. He is on his knees, and always has been; has never felt the need to get up. It is quiet devotion in the biggest way—I will forgo the church, will stay home Sunday mornings and worship you instead. We could get you a crown of thorns and you will feel the suffering, but I will staunch the blood and kiss the wounds. It will never hurt, it will be a joining of two and it will not be confined to the nighttime.
It is the middle of the day and they melt into one, a huge mess but it is beautiful and House cries; they chant it together. i love you, i love you. It is going to be okay, and it is not the night, and i love you.