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House had briefly thought, on his journey here, that the silence of his own apartment would be welcoming. That maybe it would be the key to allowing the numbness in his hands and face, the nausea that wracked his stomach to the point that he could barely stand, to subside. Instead it was only even more suffocating than when he had been trapped underneath debris and rubble; the dust still clung to his body, his clothes, coating his throat and making it hard to breathe; the metallic smell of blood, the stickiness of it that he hated, still refused to be rid of itself; every inch of his body still ached with a deeper pain than he had the capacity to deal with. Everything was the same as it had been back there, in the overbearing heat of a too-cramped space, yet now he was alone in a quiet so vicious he wanted to bolt straight back out the front door.
Yet now, a woman was dead. Hanna was dead.
(How many more people around him would have to die?)
Yet now, here, there was a hole in the wall where his bathroom mirror once hung. One only he knew existed. One that housed contents which had the ability to make this pain end.
He had already made his mind up. He had decided from when Foreman pleaded silent caution in the empty hospital lobby that this is where he was going to end up.
Because this was how it was supposed to be, right? That’s what everyone expected from him, knew him for; self-destruction.
Predictable. Uninteresting.
And so the mirror lay shattered in the bath. There were shards everywhere, some flying up and out with the force he threw it down, landing on the tiles beside his legs. He hadn’t been able to stop his body from collapsing to the floor soon after he had found what he wanted, every inch of him was weak and shaking. The only thing that had propelled him forward for so long had been that need, that cruel thing that had taken control too long ago now for House to try and defeat it (no matter how long he had fooled himself into thinking this sobriety would last). But now that need was met; the two vicodin bottles rattled gently in his grasp, and he could have laughed at how that quiet, familiar sound in the silence consuming him was something he considered a godsend.
And wouldn’t that be a picture. A (relapsing) drug-addicted atheist clutching his thigh on his bathroom floor as he laughed because of something he didn’t even believe in, with his weapon of choice ready to destroy himself.
But even though this had been a decision he was adamant on, one that somewhere deep down he knew would happen eventually, his hands shook as he uncapped the lid and two pills fell into his palm. The panic wasn’t subsiding, either, and now his vision was hazy. He wondered if he would feel tears if he reached up to touch his face.
Where there was relief, there was also fear.
With startling clarity, he didn’t think he expected to fear going back on drugs.
That movement alone (grab the bottle, pop the lid, take the pills, take the damn pills ) was so reminiscent of the life he led a year ago, the life he stopped leading a year ago. And maybe that was the part that scared him; the thought that if this was inevitable, then maybe everything since Mayfield had been a pointless act, a glimpse of someone else’s life he could almost pretend to live before time was up and everything was torn away from him. A “he’ll never last, but let’s entertain him anyway”.
Maybe he was the one entertaining himself. Maybe--
“House.”
-- and just like that, House was forced back to the present, finally registering two hands holding his face so softly it was like they were afraid he’d break. He wasn’t just staring at the bathroom tiles anymore, either. Now there was a body in front of him; rumpled shirt, slacks, dress shoes. A familiar tie he remembered hating.
He hadn’t even heard the front door open.
He held himself back from yelling.
It’s not as if he didn’t want Wilson here. Christ, House thinks he’s the only person besides maybe Cuddy who he might’ve tolerated at that moment. But seeing him ached. It clawed at his chest and caused his leg to throb as the guilt returned to him tenfold.
He endures it, because he thinks he deserves it. He’s the one who rejected Wilson in the first place. They finally had a place together, a space that wasn’t House’s apartment with someone on his couch, or a hotel Wilson pretended he could tolerate. Somewhere new, theirs in its entirety. And that comfort had become too much, too quickly, when he saw Wilson’s gaze flick down to his lips as they ate dinner on their ( theirs theirs theirs ) couch and House pushed him away before he could lean in fully.
He had moved out the next day.
“What are you doing here?” His voice came out meaner than he wanted it to, but not as strong as he had hoped it would be either. He hates how scared he sounds.
Wilson didn’t even flinch, his hands never leaving their hold. His softness was never something House felt deserving of. “Cuddy texted. And Foreman. Seems like you have people caring about you now.”
House scoffed, but there was no humour in it, only an exhaustion that was bone-deep. He was sounding exhausted now, too? Fucking fantastic.
“Well, I don’t need one more, so I’m relieving you of your duty. You can go.”
It was weak, and they both knew it. Out of the corner of his eye, House saw Wilson turn his head, spotting the vicodin bottle discarded on the tiles. He felt Wilson’s body freeze ever so briefly through the way his hands stiffened against his jaw before forcing themselves to relax again.
“How many have you taken?”
“None. Yet.”
“House-”
“I’m not lying.”
Wilson sighed, and he sounded exhausted, too. House scanned his face, took in the dark circles underneath his eyes, the present hurt that was trying to stay hidden but that House knew how to find.
He wondered how much sleep Wilson lost because of him.
Suddenly the contact was too much. He made a feeble attempt at shoving Wilson’s hands away, but it appeared to be good enough for the latter to get the message; he backed off, falling back against the opposite wall and mimicking House’s position. The hurt in his eyes no longer hid itself. House just looked away.
“House, what happened?”
“I’m sure one of the snitches let you know.”
“Yeah, the bare minimum. And they’re not the ones I-” Wilson flinched slightly, but he recovered. “You’re the one who’s hurt... upset. And I need to know what I can do to fix it.”
“Why?”
That suffocating silence resumed its original position, forcing House to glance back up just to see if Wilson was still there. He was, knees pulled halfway to his chest with his elbow resting on top, hand holding his forehead as he peered at House through his fingers with an openness he somehow made shy. Gentle.
House knew why . And God, House loved him. He can’t even say the words, can’t even see similar feelings reflected in Wilson’s eyes without bolting for the door, but it was still true, lodged in his throat for the better part of twenty years.
Wilson sighed.
“I know I can’t stop you from using,” he murmured instead of answering, and his eyes were now firmly glued to a tile in front of him. “But don’t just throw away the past year. I think you owe it to yourself-”
“Why did you try to kiss me?”
“House, please don’t do this.”
“No, I need to know,” House grimaced, looking at the vicodin bottle lying still to his left, feeling the dig of the pills against his skin where they were still captured in his palm. Their voices were so quiet, so tentative, the four walls surrounding them trapping them in this moment. He hoped Wilson couldn’t hear his heart slamming against his chest. “Things were ok. I messed up, I know. Just like I messed up tonight, except now a woman’s dead because of me-”
“That wasn’t your fault-”
“-but that’s just me. I am messed up,” he glanced up and found Wilson already staring at him. How come he was the only one who never looked at him with pity? How did he make him feel so exposed? “And I would just mess you up, too. You know that. So why did you try to kiss me?”
Their world seemed to wait on bated breath as Wilson raked a hand through his hair, his lips pulled in by his teeth as House watched his mind work and his eyes gloss over.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, “You steal my lunches.”
… House couldn’t say he was expecting that one.
“You admire thievery?”
“I fell in love with thievery,” Wilson scratched his neck. “Well, your annoying thievery, anyway.”
If Wilson could hear House’s heart before, he must have heard the emptiness it left behind as it stopped altogether.
Wilson smiled lightly, then. Bastard. But his nervous hands and voice betrayed his attempts at nonchalance.
House wanted to speak but he felt like his voice was caught in his throat. So Wilson just continued.
“We’ve been together so long that you drop all etiquette around me, because you know that’s what I want. You know what I’m really like, and it doesn’t scare you off, so I don’t have to pretend around you,” Wilson laughed under his breath. House couldn’t seem to catch his own. “And I love you for it. So I’m here, because you’re in pain and misery loves company.”
The quiet wasn’t as suffocating this time; loaded, sure, but House felt more awake than he has since that night on the couch. Despite everything that had happened earlier, he actually felt curious, surprised. Interested.
Suddenly Wilson pushed up off the floor, clearing his throat as he stood up straight, before reaching a hand down toward the stunned lump of dust and blood on the floor. “Now can we please go back to our apartment where there’s a proper first aid kit?”
Our apartment.
House looked toward the outstretched hand, gripping the vicodin in his own a little tighter, trying to make a decision. The craving hadn’t gone away, it never really did in entirety, but the itch had dulled down; the presence of the man in front of him, throwing him a lifeline, made good work at soothing over the untapped guilt and panic and grief bottled in him.
So he carefully relaxed his hand, dropped the pills onto the tiles with only a pang of fear, and tried his hardest not to look back down at them as he let Wilson pull him to his feet, taking gentle consideration to House’s bad leg.
Wilson breathed a quiet sigh of relief as House stood next to him. He slowly reached up with one hand, wiping a thumb softly under House’s eyes as the former watched on, dumbfounded. Wilson brushed over the knuckles of the hand still in his grasp before releasing him entirely, and House, strangely, had to stop himself from dragging him back in.
Wilson quietly muttered for directions to his cane, silently moving to grab it from its perch and turn off the bathroom light before the two made their way back towards the front door. They were quiet in their familiar way, and it was nice .
House stopped short of the door, watching Wilson just reach for the handle, and he realised he didn’t want to wait anymore.
“Wilson.”
The night around them amplified his voice, the word clinging to the air like dust. Wilson turned to find House closer to him than they’ve been in years, eyes piercing right through him. Wilson deflated, his face so loving House felt it would take years for him to feel worthy of it.
But he wanted to start learning how.
Their lips met and they finally didn’t need to say anything more.