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Wilson checked his watch.
8:59.
He turned the corner onto House’s block, both hands back on the wheel, pulled to the curb, jerked the Volvo into park, and checked his watch again. 9:00. He almost mentally patted himself on the back. Right on time.
Punctuality , he thought somewhat sourly, there’s a skill you can take to the bank . Then, not understanding his own bitter sarcasm he frowned. It is a skill I can take to the bank, it’s a good skill . One that House doesn’t have, that’s for sure.
He leaned over the passenger seat in hopes of catching a glimpse of movement from within the apartment. Nothing. Drawn blinds. Lights off. He sighed.
Wilson had already been to work. He’d gotten there at 7:00. Promptly. But he’d said yesterday, or rather had agreed when he’d been hailed abruptly through the glass windows of House’s office to do so, that he’d give House a ride and so here he was.
Waiting, patiently, he picked up his coffee cup which was next to the one he’d picked up for House, and took a sip. He held the sweet liquid in the spoon of his tongue before swallowing and in the back of his mind he thought his dentist would really hate him doing that.
Wilson’s cell phone rang, almost making him spill down the front of his brown and blue tie. His eyes, which hadn’t left House’s front door, redirected themselves as he reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his cell, and glanced at the call-screen.
“Hello?” Wilson answered.
“Wilson, where are you?” Cuddy asked hastily, voice sounding somewhat distant like she had the phone tucked between her neck and shoulder as she rummaged around her desk.
“Picking House up—what’s going on?”
“Doesn’t he have a car? This is the third time this week, not to mention last week.”
“I don’t mind picking him up. He asked me.”
“Like I asked you to be here at 8:30 to go over the extra funds for the oncology lab?”
Wilson blinked, finally remembering, “Oh my god, I forgot,” he winced, “I’m so sorry—it just slipped my mind, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“After you pick House up,” Cuddy said stonily, not a question.
“Yeah,” Wilson replied, confused and a little irritated. He hardly ever missed appointments with her, it wasn’t like this was an all the time thing.
“Does House come first with everything in your life?” she asked, voice clearer, like she was speaking directly into the phone, “Do you think about him when you’re trying to decide what kind of toothpaste to buy?”
“He likes gel toothpaste—so do I,” Wilson said, slightly puzzled.
“Do you even hear yourself?” Cuddy asked, exasperated, then sighed, “Forget it—just get your ass back here as soon as possible.”
*****
Wilson stopped writing, turning his wrist up to check the time.
9:54.
He pushed his chair back and stood, planting a hand on his lower back as he bent his spine backwards and listened to a few less than pleasant cracks. Not bothering to put his jacket on, he ran his fingers through his hair and exited his office to head down the hall to the vending machines.
He passed a woman he knew who worked at the front desk, Becky, and said, “Hi, how are you?” and got a “Fine, thanks, and you?” in return, to which he said “Good, thanks,” all in a barely three second exchange as they passed by each other. He wondered briefly if she’d worked things out with her husband, sifting through his memory for a moment before pulling out the name, Ray, who he knew was a plumber and also, apparently, hard to get along with. He’d chatted with Becky in the past and heard all about it. Dinners she made that he didn’t eat, late nights where he didn’t come home, right down to the dirty laundry strewn across the bedroom floor. She’d looked happy enough right then. No dark circles under her eyes, not dragging her feet. Wilson hoped this was an indication that things were looking up for her and Ray.
When he got to the vending area he saw Kutner slipping coins into the slot. From the sound of it, lots of coins. When he heard Wilson come up behind him he stopped, jingling a few nickels in his palm, “Dr. Wilson, hi,” he said with a smile.
“Kutner—what’s up?” Wilson rejoined, eyeing the selections behind the glass.
“Nothing much,” Kutner replied with a one shouldered shrug before returning his attention to the machine which he began feeding nickels into again, “To be honest I’m a little bored,” he mused for only a second after putting in his last coin, pushing a few buttons. then bent to pick up the bag of animal crackers, “You?”
“A lot of what I do is boring,” Wilson said, inhaling genially as he stepped forward to feed the machine his dollar, “You get used to the waiting though—nothing’s instant.”
Kutner widened his eyes and nodded in agreement. Probably not a new concept to him, Wilson thought tiredly, suddenly sure he would not make a good mentor to any medical student. He heard Kutner tear open the bag and pop one of the crackers in his mouth, crunching thoroughly.
“How’s House treating you?” Wilson asked.
“Treating me or treating everyone ?” he asked.
“There’s usually not much of a distinction, he tends to treat all his minions the same,” Wilson said, staring at the contents of the vending machine for a few seconds before deciding.
“Comforting,” Kutner said through half a mouthful of animal-cracker.
“It might not seem like it, but if he starts picking on just you it’s a good thing,” Wilson put in another dollar.
“Really?” Kutner asked, pausing a moment, “Cus the other day he wouldn’t let up on me for at least half the differential—I felt like crying afterwards, but hey, maybe that’s a good thing.”
“Maybe,” Wilson agreed, retrieving his candy.
“Hungry much?” Kutner asked with a laugh.
“Huh?” Wilson responded, turning to face him.
“You bought like three things—I mean, that’s cool with me, I’m all for a sugar rush before lunch.”
Wilson laughed, glancing at the three candy bars in his hands with a shrug, “They’re not all for me—House is always in need of something sweet to get him through that tough hour or so before lunch.”
“You’re bringing him candy?”
“Yeah,” Wilson said in the same confused way he had to Cuddy this morning.
“Hey,” Kutner said, turning to leave, “You’re the one that said “something sweet” not me—see ya later, Dr. Wilson.”
Wilson stood in stunned silence for a moment, frowning after Kutner’s retreating form. The hour before lunch was hard for House. And he did like sweet things. He mused for a moment more and gave up on it, walking slowly so he wouldn’t run into Kutner on his way to House’s office.
*****
Wilson tapped the pad of his thumb against the edge of his lunch tray and glanced at his watch.
12:42.
Funny how déjà vu works , Wilson thought, unless you actually have done something a million times already.
He’d already been in the cafeteria line, already gotten House’s and his food, he’d waited and shuffled, counting how many more people there were before it was his turn—he’d done all that; of course then he’d seen that they actually did have peaches, in which case he had to get them for House, which meant he had to get out of line and go back for them, hence being at the end of line, again. Now, peaches obtained and crammed into the corner of the already very crowded try, Wilson batted down his impatience the best he could and inched along every few minutes, ever closer to the register.
A muffin, a cup of coffee, and a folded up newspaper entered his field of vision from the right.
“Light lunch?” he heard.
Wilson turned his eyes up from his laden tray to see Foreman next to him.
“Oh, hi Foreman,” he greeted somewhat anxiously, ceasing the nervous tick of his thumb, “I didn’t see you in line.”
“I usually try to get in and out of here as fast as possible—only thing worse than overworked stressed people is hungry overworked stressed people.”
“I know,” Wilson agreed, resisting the urge to wipe at a sheen of sweat that had developed on his forehead, the heat from the buffet was almost too much in addition to the combined body heat of the crowded cafeteria, “Apparently they ran out of pepperoni pizza about twenty minutes ago and several people had to be escorted out to avoid starting a mob.”
“People gotta relax,” Foreman sighed.
Wilson nodded, sidestepping forward as another person finished at the register. He fished in his back pocket for his wallet and checked how much cash he had. Not enough. He bit at the inside of his cheek and glanced around the horde of lunch-goers, looking for House amongst the tables. In the sea of people, tables, and chairs he looked for either a slightly taller person, the red of the shirt he knew House was wearing today, or a cane. Even with those visual markers Wilson couldn’t find him in the crowd.
“By the windows,” he heard behind him.
“Huh?” Wilson jumped, not realising he’d blanked out for a moment.
“He’s by the windows,” Foreman supplied, glancing up at Wilson briefly with an almost impatient, condemnatory look.
Wilson frowned, wondering briefly if he was that obvious. I don’t think I am , he thought. Foreman’s just good at deduction. Still, Wilson didn’t like the idea of being so easy to read, like the fact that he’d been looking for House had been written on his face for everyone to see.
“He ever pay for lunch?” Foreman asked, leaning away from someone behind him that was reaching around him to grab an apple.
Wilson laughed, “You’re kidding.”
“Never?”
“No,” Wilson said simply, adding, “I don’t really mind, though.”
“Right,” Foreman said in a sarcastic tone. Wilson felt a small flare of anger. Sure, Foreman had been around awhile but ever since coming back from his brief sabbatical he’d been more and more willing to offer forth his opinion on things. And I’m a department head , Wilson thought defensively, even though he’d never really pulled rank on any of House’s fellows before.
“I don’t ,” Wilson repeated, “What I mind is waiting in line for centuries—I had to go back to get these damn peaches for House—this is ridiculous, they have one person working the cash register.”
Wilson waited for more mutual-complaining about the condition of the hospital cafeteria’s infrastructure; when it didn’t come he cleared his throat, not sure why he was uncomfortable.
“All I know is that House would not have gone back in line to get you peaches,” Foreman said, and when Wilson turned to look at him he raised a hand submissively and seemed satisfied.
Finally at the register Wilson paid with his card, carefully gathering the tray in his hands and nodding a thank you to the woman before heading in the direction of the windows. He didn’t like peaches anyway.
*****
Wilson glanced quickly at his watch as he walked down the corridor, hoping he had enough time.
3:32
He reached his destination, sliding back the glass door, a patient room, and slipped inside without even turning around, startled somewhat to see both Taub and Thirteen in the room. House forgot to mention they’d be here.
“Dr. Wilson,” Thirteen said, eyes narrowing, the chart she was holding lowering in her arms, “What are you doing here?”
Wilson almost bit his own tongue as he clenched his jaw, sliding his hands into his lab coat where fingers wrapped around the pager he hadn’t clipped back onto his belt. House had sent him a message to check on his patient. Wilson had had a few minutes to spare so he’d left his office, not sending a reply, not expecting to run into anyone.
“I’m . . .” checking on House’s patient because apparently he doesn’t trust you to do it , “Just looking for House.”
“Not here,” Taub shrugged, “Far as I know he hasn’t even met the patient yet.”
Wilson passed his eyes over the screen of the patient’s stat monitor, recording all the information it told him on a mental note-pad he was planning on throwing at House when he had a chance, then took a few steps forward, closer to the chart Thirteen was carrying.
“Not surprising,” Wilson said, glancing at the patient, “Is he sedated or sleeping?” he asked in an almost-solely-because-he-was-concerned voice.
“Sedated,” Thirteen answered, shaking her head, “Psych symptoms got out of hand.”
“Or he’s just a psycho,” Taub added dryly from his position on the other side of the bed.
“What do you mean?” Wilson asked, keeping his hands casually in his pockets.
“It’s unlikely the psych symptoms were caused by the drugs, we detoxed him and even afterwards he was crazy,” Taub explained, the slight sheen of sweat on his face offering testimony to what was probably a harrowing experience.
“Drug induced psychosis isn’t a twenty four hour bug,” Wilson corrected him, “Mentally ill people use drugs, some would argue they have more reason to. Not to mention systemic negligence in the medical treatment of those with mental illness, ” Wilson pulled his pager out of his pocket even though it hadn’t buzzed, feigning an excuse to leave, “Try and be better than most doctors.”
Regardless of Wilson’s efforts to leave, Thirteen asked, “Is that what House would do?”
Of course. Wilson was used to people’s perception of House, but House as a doctor was something else, “Yes, House wouldn’t disregard a symptom just because someone as you so lightly put it, psycho.”
“I’ll be waiting to hear the Nobel Peace Prize announcement,” Taub said sarcastically, probably because he’d incorrectly assumed the tone. Sarcasm, sure. Pure sarcasm, no. House mixed righteous indignation into it most days.
“That’s uncalled for,” Wilson said, turning back around.
“Really?” Taub challenged.
“Really. And if you think that’s who you are working for, quit now.”
“He’s lucky to have you as a friend,” Thirteen interjected.
“Or rather his P.R, manager,” Taub grumbled.
“Just try harder. If there is one thing House wants to teach people, if they like it or not, is to look beyond the surface.”
“Which is how,” Thirteen said and it caught Wilson’s attention as he was again trying to leave, “You’re his friend to begin with.”
Wilson barely nodded and followed through with his motion of leaving. House’s fellows weren’t working for him and it wasn’t his place to educate them on the finer points of medical care. Or of people. Of people a little bit different than others. What was the point of having the fellows if he wasn’t going to train them? What’s more he was again in a position to defend House all while House worked overtime to appear as cantankerous and unlikeable as possible. Wilson told himself in the future it would be different. He wanted things to be different. He didn’t want to jump every time House called. He wanted more out of the relationship and it surprised him how uncomfortable that thought made him; of expecting it. His fists were still clenched as he headed toward House’s office.
*****
Wilson wearily checked the time, closing his eyes briefly against fatigue, then opened them again to the same sight; his patient, one of twenty-seven he had right now, lying asleep in a hospital bed, not responding to treatment.
8:29
He didn’t want to believe the time. It wasn’t that late. It couldn’t be.
His eyes felt watery, eyelids heavy, and at the back of his throat there was an incessant tightness that felt a bit like being near tears. An odd response to stress maybe, maybe not, regardless Wilson felt he had agency over the tears he shed. He felt as if he could offer them, a certain amount, to each of his patients when they died. He didn’t know how else to do it. It was the only way he wouldn’t drown.
The dark hospital room he was in would have felt complete with a bramble bush just inside the door, or the ambient sound of dripping with a faint echo, maybe a few rock formations—it was like a cave. Just outside the nurses station was bright and lively. It was quiet here. Dark, Wilson’s dulled vision blurred somewhat and he set the patient's chart down to pinch the bridge of his nose.
He glanced up at the woman and his arms were limp at his sides, as if he’d spent more than a fortnight swinging an axe in battle, a battle he’d lost anyway, returning home beaten and worn.
It was eerie. After all the patient had been through, chemo, drug therapy, remission, relapses, here, now, she looked . . . peaceful.
Today Wilson had told her she was going to die in less than a month.
The calm silence was suddenly broken as Wilson’s phone rang. He grabbed it quickly from his pocket, eyes watching the patient the whole time, relieved as she only stirred slightly, then lifted the phone to his ear, whispering, “This isn’t a good time,” he turned away from the bed and walked toward the window, the blue glow emanating from his cell-phone lighting the shadowy corner, “Yes, I know what time it is . . .”
Wilson looked out the window but couldn’t see anything outside, only his faint reflection, a reflection that he didn’t even really recognise. Here at middle age, in the same spot he’d been for years, watching more death than life, wondering how he got to be how old he is without anything to show for it. So instead he looked down to his shoes. He listened quietly to the voice on the other line, letting the familiar low tones take him away from the dark room and his own depression, if only for a moment. He let himself imagine every detail of the other’s location, noting all the small sounds he could hear in the background, etching a picture in his mind of a warm kitchen and an inviting couch. He was surprised when a small smile made it to his lips and even more surprised that he could almost sense that the other man was smiling too.
He turned slightly to glance at the still sleeping patient and said quietly, “No, I won’t be home for dinner, not that that wouldn’t be nice . . . especially today . . . no, no I’m okay . . . maybe I’ll bring something by . . . yeh, I’ll see you later. Bye.”
Wilson flipped the phone shut. The light went dead. He held it in his hand briefly, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the smooth screen as his eyes flickered up to his reflection in the window.
“Dr. Wilson,” a voice said behind him.
He jumped, turning around to see his patient looking at him from her pillows, “Lucy—I thought you were asleep.”
“I was,” she said in a slightly weak voice.
Wilson walked toward the bed, phone slipping into his pocket, “How are you feeling?”
She closed her eyes briefly at the question and took a breath, “Tired.”
“I’m sorry I woke you, I—”
“No, it wasn’t you—I don’t really want to sleep all the time anyway—I’m not much of a dreamer.”
“Sleep is healing,” Wilson said, reaching for her wrist, “It’s okay to need more right now.”
“Really? And what about oncologists?”
“Except for oncologists—it was excluded in our vows.”
She smiled, repositioning her head on the pillow, “Who was that on the phone?”
“Hum?” Wilson responded non-verbally, distracted as he confirmed her pulse rate on the monitor.
“Someone checking up on you?”
“Yeah,” Wilson nodded, smiling somewhat, “A hungry someone, actually.”
“Late hours aren’t exactly conducive to a happy home life.”
“Maybe not,” Wilson said and he thought of his wife, wives, and every dinner left in the microwave, or the oven, covered in tin foil until, eventually, they would leave nothing.
“Daniel used to cook a lot . . . all the time . . . ”
“Must have been nice.”
“It was,” she nodded, pausing for breath, “Before.”
“He still cares about you,” Wilson paused, feeling the depth threatening to open up under her, “Hospital food is formulated to make patients miss home cooked meals.”
“You eat it too.”
Wilson sighed, “I would cook more, I think, if I could.”
“I hope you get the chance,” she paused, taking a breath, “You shouldn’t be here.”
Wilson raised his eyebrows, her pulse strong under his fingertips, “I’m alright.”
“I’m sure she’d appreciate you home.”
Wilson blinked, taken aback, “It’s . . . not my wife.”
“Oh,” Lucy said, her pale brow furrowed slightly, “I thought—well the way you were talking on the phone . . . it sounded like someone you cared about, someone waiting at home for you.”
Wilson shook his head, finding himself fumbling for a response, “He’s just hungry.”
“Do you make him dinner?”
“Sometimes,” Wilson conceded, taking a breath that he almost immediately let out as a sigh, “For both of us.”
“Still,” Lucy said, a corner of her mouth turning up in a small smile, her voice casual, “It’s nice to have someone to eat that dinner with, right?”
Wilson’s mind flipped through images of a plate settled in his lap, a napkin tickling his throat with his feet on the table and a television burbling nonsense in front of him. He could almost hear noisy, obnoxious chewing next to him—and he frowned, realising maybe it did feel like home, times like that. He glanced once at Lucy then walked back around to the end of the bed and admitted, “It is nice, yes.”
“You gonna pick something up for dinner?” she asked.
Wilson paused. Was she seeking normalcy? Did she want to hear about his day, his life? Wilson wasn’t sure how normal his life was at the moment. He’d had normal. Knew normal. And lost it. Several times.
“Yeah, maybe pizza or Chinese or something—he’ll have to suffer through whatever I choose.”
His patient smiled, chest rising softly under the blanket, then shrugged, “Maybe he’ll just be glad you’re there, no matter what food you bring.”
Wilson actually laughed. It wasn’t long after doing so that he realised it was kind of a strange reaction to the suggestion that someone might enjoy his company. For the most part he didn’t believe it was true, people liked him, rarely had a bad word to say, yet so few actually stuck around, they seemed to scatter, taking their normal, whatever that was, and leaving only a faint imprint behind. Wilson worried for a moment, not the first, how hard he’d tried to keep them there. Maybe it was his fault.
Wilson recovered, slightly embarrassed, “I don’t know about that, how glad he’d be,” he straightened his back a bit, feeling his defences rise against the personal nature of her inquiries even though he’d always felt comfortable talking with patients before. Just not about House, “I practise small rebellions and get pineapple on my pizza—which he hates.”
*****
Wilson watched the digital clock in his car then cut the engine, noting the time.
9:39
He hadn’t told House an exact time, so it didn’t matter. And it honestly didn’t. All he wanted was to sink into House’s couch and shut his eyes for an hour or so before going back to the hotel and collapsing into bed. And it’s not like House would be asleep.
Wilson didn’t let himself think about House and sleepless nights. It was beyond what he could care about. Even if he used to. When House was at home he had to take care of himself. Which wasn’t too much to ask. Except for the occasional dinner Wilson brought over. But what’s wrong with that? It's food, everyone needs food. And maybe Wilson needed that too. Maybe it was okay. Maybe it didn’t matter what people thought. Maybe all that mattered was how he felt when he was around him. Maybe how he operated with House was no one’s business. It was up to him, and only him, to try and work out the differences between wanting and needing, caring and nagging, sympathy and pity.
Even then, pushing the automatic lock button on his car, shouldering his bag, and walking tiredly to the front door of House’s apartment, he hated his own inner monologue, hated the back and forth and that he had to question it. He wanted to believe that if he didn’t want to be here he wouldn’t be.
At the door he awkwardly reached into his pocket and got the key, the pizza sliding dangerously to one side of the box, and let himself in.
“House?” he called, closing the door. He noted the empty couch, a light down the hall, and House’s shoes, coat, and back-pack thrown across the floor near the door. He pushed them out of the way with his foot, setting his own bag on a chair near the door. There was no answer from House, he hadn’t been expecting one, in fact the whole apartment was quiet and dark.
Without taking his coat off Wilson took the pizzas to the kitchen, the smell making his stomach growl miserably. Hungry. He returned to the living room and unbuttoned his coat, throwing it off as he listened for any sign of House. Was he actually asleep?
He stood a moment in the dark living room, his stomach empty and complaining, his head aching and resentful of the long day, eyelids almost shutting where he stood. Stretching out an arm he tugged at his tie with the other, slipping free the first few buttons in his collar. Maybe House actually was asleep. If he was, Wilson didn’t want to wake him. Genuine good sleep wasn’t something House got a lot of, and it would be a perfect ending to the day Wilson had had, to be the one responsible for ruining it.
Wilson didn’t bother turning on any lights. Without blinds or curtains on the windows, the streetlamp outside House’s apartment provided dull outlines of all of House’s furniture, not light enough to show details but light enough to keep Wilson from tripping on anything.
The cyclical cleanliness of House’s apartment was at about the midway point between clutter and irreparable disorder. Books, journals, dishes, all the things that had a way of multiplying when you don’t pay attention covered all available surfaces like sediment in a rock. Eventually House would have one of his “better” days and he’d clean it all out.
Wilson toed his shoes off, the sound of them would be too loud and resonating in the small apartment, scooting them with the end of his foot next to the couch. He’d check on House, make sure he was alright, otherwise he’d eat a few slices of pizza and maybe sleep on the couch. I don’t want to get back in my car, he thought, anyways, I’ll just be picking House up in the morning.
Wilson took slow, tired steps down the hall to House’s bedroom, listening for movement. The only sound he heard was his own stocking feet whispering over the hardwood floors and a creak in the floorboards that he’d learned to anticipate.
House’s bedroom door was open a crack. A light was on.
“House?” he called again, not too loud.
Wilson’s heart started beating a little faster, throat tightened. House had probably stayed up all last night and was paying for it now, that’s all.
He hesitated outside the door, not sure why, but the total lack of sound and those implications won out over discomfort, worry and fear twisting in Wilson’s chest. He put a hand on the door and pushed, peering around the door into the dimly lit room.
House was lying on his bed, legs stretched out in front of him, head lolling to the side on the headboard, eyes closed. An open book was laid out next to him, his long-fingered hand resting over the pages. The bed was unmade. The sheets and blankets were more on the floor than they were on the mattress. And House looked even more worn than usual. His hair was standing up in eight different directions and there was something suddenly very odd to Wilson about seeing House’s bare-feet coming from the bottom of his jeans. House’s chest rose and fell softly under his shirt. The sound of slow, even breathing through his open mouth, whistling slightly through his teeth, urged synchronism from Wilson’s own breath to the point that Wilson felt his heart slow, muscles relaxing as he watched House sleep.
Wilson’s lips quirked slightly at the corner and his eyes lowered, sighing quietly, hand dropping from the door. He wanted to walk away. He probably should.
House suddenly jerked, inhaling sharply, eyes coming into shaky focus, “Wilson?”
“House, sorry,” Wilson said, hand reaching to hold the door frame, one foot falling back a step, “I let myself in.”
One heavy breath and a sleepy groan later House asked, “How long you been here?” his voice was rough, head in his hand, fingers through his hair, pressing the heel of one of his hands into his eye.
“Not long,” Wilson answered, taking a breath, “I brought a pizza.”
House squeezed his eyes shut, using his arms to sit up more against the headboard. Wilson stayed in the doorway, watching. House’s eyes turned to him and for a moment their gazes held. House’s neck and back were sore from sleeping like he had, remnants of a restless dream on the stage of his memory, frustrated at himself for falling asleep when he hadn’t wanted to. He blamed just waking up for his lack of reaction right now. Pain was expected when he woke up. Wilson at his bedroom door, less so these days.
Wilson was quiet and returned the eye contact with blank resolution, standing in his stocking feet at the edge of the lamp’s light like a moth flying to the only flame.
House looked away, easing his right leg over the side of the bed, “Sleeping here?”
“Thought I might.”
“I call the left side,” House grumbled, reaching for his cane.
They made their way to the kitchen, House rubbing at a sore neck, Wilson tight-lipped, eye’s heavy-lidded.
House reached the pizza box, “What’s on them?” he asked, raising his nose to sniff with narrowed eyes.
“Pepperoni,” Wilson shrugged, “Cheese . . . pineapple.”
House’s face turned desolate, “You didn’t just say that.”
“It’s not on all of it, just some of it.”
House groaned, eyes closing for a moment, saying in an irritated voice, “Pineapples are gross, Wilson—have you seen them?” he ran a hand restlessly through his hair, making it stick straight up as the movement turned into a sharp hand-gesture, “They have spikes, why would you want to eat that?”
“Arguing taste is pointless, House,” Wilson retorted, “You still wear shirts that you owned in the eighties.”
House groaned, “What the hell are you so mad about?”
Wilson gave a short, terse laugh, “You know—” he said, “I wasn’t mad—I was fine, just fine,” he shrugged, ignoring House perplexed, narrowed-eye expression, “But all day I had people telling me I should be mad, and do you know about what?”
“Inflation?”
“ You , House,” Wilson said, “I do so many things for you—and I must seem like a fucking idiot because I never say no to you.”
“Who are people?”
“People—as in people we know—people who seem to think I’ll drop anything when it comes to you.”
“Which people?”
“Are you even listening to me?”
“So you do things; friends do things for friends.”
“Would you have gotten me peaches?”
“I’m not following you.”
“I went back in line, House! I stood in for twenty minutes to get you peaches!”
House looked away, “I didn’t ask you to.”
“But I did!”
“I said thanks.”
“No you didn’t.”
“I am now.”
“Would you have gotten them for me?”
“You don’t like peaches.”
“That’s not the point!”
“I don’t know—how far away are they? Do I have to climb stairs?”
“God, people must think I’m—” Wilson stopped himself, shaking his head. He turned slightly away from House, right hand on the warm cardboard of the pizza box.
“Wilson,” House said from over Wilson’s right shoulder, “It doesn’t matter what people think, it only matters what you think, what you feel. I don’t want to force you to do anything. I just—” he stopped, jaw clamping shut.
By the time House spoke again Wilson was about ready to storm out of the kitchen but he did, eventually saying, “I was waiting for you.”
Wilson looked over his shoulder at House.
“I’d already eaten,” House continued, “I was waiting for you anyway. Okay?” he shifted his leg under him, “When you’re here–it’s just us. When you’re here it’s better,” he looked up hesitantly, “For me anyway.”
Wilson met the other man’s eyes, struck for a moment in wordless shock. He studied the wide blue eyes and scruffy cheeks and neck. House’s skin appeared warm and soft, the limpness of sleep still evident in the line of his shoulders and the set of his mouth.
“I . . .” Wilson said, licking his lips, “I know that, and I know it’s different. When it’s just us.”
House considered this, it felt like familiar territory, a pull and tug they’d perfected, “You try too hard to make people like you.”
“Right,” Wilson nodded with a bitter laugh.
“I like you. Just the way you are,” this caught Wilson’s attention, “You don’t need to prove anything to me.”
“Except that I’m at your beck and call.”
“That’s just foreplay.”
Wilson shook his head, “You’re not as enigmatic as you think you are.”
“No?” House seemed to lean closer and Wilson stayed completely still, “Stay here.”
Wilson didn’t look up, “Why?”
“Because I want you here.”
And to Wilson, for now, that was enough.