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House doesn't delete the message from his answering machine. He listens to it over and over again, to the point that he could probably recite it verbatim.
Every time he visits Wilson in the psych ward, he looks like shit, sallow and sunken and exhausted. It's terrifying. House acts like it's fine, of course, he still acts mean and bitchy and insane. That hasn't changed.
But he’s also nervous, and House hates feeling nervous. He needs Wilson to be normal again, except that's the last thing Wilson needs, so they're at a stalemate.
But it's fine. It's fine. House is fine, and normal, and he isn't cleaning his house obsessively while waiting for Wilson to start living with him.
That would be ridiculous, especially considering the fact that he hates cleaning and he hasn't actually cleaned his apartment in over three entire years, which means that doing so is really a task for the ages.
At least Cuddy cut down his clinic hours; though that's probably because the stress made him threaten to strangle a child. That was a little much, even for him. Not that he’d ever admit it.
“I've been doing fine,” Wilson said, lying through his fucking teeth. House sighed.
“No you haven't,” he said. It was Wilson’s turn to sigh.
“No I haven't,” he replied reluctantly. “What about you?”
“I'm doing great,” House said, without thinking, and then he winced. Not enough sarcasm. Wilson, even in his dilapidated state, managed to raise an eyebrow.
“Great? You're never doing great. What's wrong?” House shook his head.
“Nope. No. You do not get to fret over me. You're on strict rest.” Wilson rolled his eyes.
“Rest from what? Caring about other people?”
“Trying to solve my problems. You should be focusing on yourself,” House corrected. The joking smile leaked off of Wilson’s face. He stared at his hands for a minute.
“Don't,” he whispered. “Don't, okay? Cuddy wants me to resign because she feels guilty, Cameron cries more in one meeting then I have since trying to kill myself, and Chase can't even carry a conversation.
You're the one person who comes to see me that doesn't act like I've turned into a ghost. Don't change that. I- I need this. I need you to be normal.” The fragility hung in the air, lingering like poison. House swallowed, adjusting the grip on his cane.
There were so many things he wanted to stay.
Why did you want to leave me? I can't do that. I can't live without you. I don't know who I am without you. I want you in my life more than I've ever wanted anything. I don't know what it means. I've never known what it means. But I know that it's true.
Don't you dare think that no one wants you here. You have to know that I want you here. I want you here. I want you here. I want you here. Instead, he said,
“Okay, fine. You look like shit and your hair is stupid and you're the worst. Happy?” Wilson snorted and buried his head in his hands.
“You're such an asshole,” he groaned, but he sounded more normal. They went back to bantering like nothing was wrong.
That night, when House went home, he sat down and listened to the message again. Here’s to us, House. Here’s to us.
The tinny voice rang in his ears long after he stopped playing the recording.
It is not the first time that James Wilson has spent the night on House’s couch.
He lays there, staring at the ceiling, and tries to forget the way his stomach is roiling. Everything is fine. He’s out of the hospital. He’s in House’s apartment, and House has finally gone to sleep, and everything is fine. Except it's dark, and that means that it's hard for Wilson to actually identify this as his apartment.
Except he’s been on the couch a lot, actually, he’s been kicked out of bed by his ex-wives so many times that eventually, he stopped counting. And all he can feel is the sick, familiar nausea that comes with betraying someone he loves - the distress that led him back to cheating in the first place.
It wasn't about the sex. It was never really about the sex. It was about seeking warmth anywhere he could get it. Sex was just usually the easiest way to get there.
Wilson loves connecting to people. Wilson wants to connect to everyone, all the time.
He gets off (spiritually and physically) on being with someone, on getting so close that the lines start to blur. He wants to meld with someone so completely that he doesn't have to be himself anymore.
This is the opposite of that. This was always the opposite of that; guilt-ridden, alone, cold. Left with nothing but his self hatred, yearning, and lumpy couch cushions. No consolation.
And maybe it's because he’s sleep deprived. Maybe it's because he’s lonely, and in crisis, and miserable. Whatever it is, Wilson stands up and drifts toward House’s room.
House wakes up in the morning to Wilson curled up in his bed. He sits up, disoriented and half-awake, and stares. Because it's too early for his brain to be working, the first thing he says, in an incredulous tone, is
“Did we have sex last night?” Wilson’s eyes fly open. He looks at House, and then at the bed, and then closes his eyes again and curls up tighter.
“I think I would have remembered that,” he mumbles, unperturbed. House narrows his eyes.
There were about a thousand different things he could have said, such as what the hell, Wilson, or
I haven't slept in the same bed as somebody else since Stacy abandoned me and this is honestly a little bit jarring or
how is casual intimacy as easy as breathing for you when I can't say anything that it isn't laced in six layers of sarcasm and irony?
He doesn't say any of that.
Instead he recognizes that it's a Saturday and seven in the morning. Instead he rolls over and pretends he doesn't completely melt into it when Wilson unconsciously puts a hand against the small of his back.
Instead he tries to convince himself that none of this means anything at all.
And here’s the thing about James Wilson that House has learned over the years: he is very very good at pretending that he’s completely normal and well adjusted.
It is precisely because of his stupid big brown doe eyes and calm demeanor that he can basically talk people into jumping off a cliff without batting an eye. House is not immune to this- but just because he’s not immune doesn't mean he hasn't developed some techniques over the years.
Wilson is pretending, very intentionally, that they aren't sleeping in the same bed.
Whenever House falters or shows how the awkwardness is starting to get to him, Wilson laughs and smiles and looks away. Wilson isn’t bringing it up because he wants House to bring it up. Wilson is the one who slipped into his bed, Wilson is the one who has to bring it up. Anything short of that is just unfair.
House categorically refuses to start the conversation. Wilson should know him well enough by now to understand that he doesn't capitulate that easily. House will not bring it up.
The problem with this plan is that neither of them are sound sleepers. So sometimes they'll both end up awake, laying in the same bed, intent on talking about literally anything but the gigantic, hulking elephant in the room.
“Your ceiling has a stain on it,” Wilson said, astute and helpful as ever. House gritted his teeth and didn't answer, hand curled around his screaming leg. He’d already taken as much vicodin as he’d be able to handle for the night. No way out but through. Wilson glanced at him.
“Is the pain keeping you up?”
“Kill yourself,” House snapped out of habit, because he was mean when in pain. When his brain caught up with his mouth he winced. “Fuck. Too soon. Forget I said that.” Wilson just laughed.
“Anything you can do to help with it?” House scowled.
“If there was, don't you think there’s something I would have tried already? And don't start about physical therapy, I'm not in the mood for a lecture right now.”
“I haven't seen my therapist in weeks,” Wilson pointed out. “I'm hardly one to talk.”
“How the hell did you manage that?” Wilson was quiet for a minute.
“I uh… I may have blackmailed her so she wouldn't mention my absence to Cuddy.” House laughed, surprising even himself.
He must have been extraordinarily sleep deprived. Wilson laughed too, and then House laughed harder, and then they were both laughing, delirious and stubborn, giggling like school girls over nothing at all. Somehow, House ends up in Wilson’s arms.
Somehow, they fall asleep like that, and wake up tangled together.
Somehow, neither of them bring it up.