Work Text:
“I'd like to talk about James Wilson," Dr. Nolan said evenly, hands folded neatly in his lap in a gesture that had once been performative, but had since become easy habit. His notepad, seldom scribbled on - sometimes House wondered if it was just there to complete the therapist image - lay across his knees. This irritated House; he liked to ignore certain questions in favor of trying to read the penciled notes, but never could. The notepad was just barely too far away for his creeping-into-the-realm-of-old eyes.
House scoffed, "Just call him Wilson."
Dr. Nolan smiled faintly. "I think that's a good starting point. Why you insist on only referring to Dr. James Wilson by his last name."
House was slumped back in his seat, man-spreading, a comical juxtaposition to Darryl Nolan's prim posture and even demeanor, but he straightened slightly at the other man's 'accusatory tone'.
"I don't insist upon it. We're doctors, but I'm not going to call him Doctor Wilson all the time, so it makes sense to just drop the title," House said, eyebrows together. It was hard for him not to speak everything to Dr. Nolan as if it were stupidly obvious. Sometimes he didn't really try to keep the 'duh' out of his voice.
"Well, you aren't just work friends. You're best friends, from what I've gathered," Nolan said, "Do you ever call him James?"
"Sometimes I call him Jimmy to piss him off."
"But, when speaking to him regularly, you solely call him Wilson," Nolan said, wording the question as a fact. He did that often - only looking to House to deny the statement rather than answer the 'question'. House said nothing.
"Have you ever thought about referring to him as something else?"
"Like mistress?"
It was Nolan's turn to say nothing, face impassive. Tough crowd, per usual. House threw his head back in annoyance.
"You're right, you've uncovered it. I started abusing Vicodin because I've always wished I could call Wilson Jim," House said mockingly.
"You're saying you don't see the relevance of this topic."
Another non-question, open for denial.
Dr. Nolan sighed, thinking, his polished dress shoe tapping a slow, soundless rhythm on the floor of his office.
"Okay. Maybe that was the wrong avenue. Tell me about your friendship with James. I've heard much about him, but we've never simply discussed him," he said. His face was unbothered, his professionalism more an aura than a physicality. He was dressed sharply in a black, smartly tailored, single-breasted, Versace suit with a plum striped tie - another stark contrast to House with his faded t-shirt and jeans.
"You're not going to dupe me into calling him James," House said.
"I wasn't trying to," Nolan said indulgently. House looked out of the window and watched the stationary cars do nothing in the parking lot. Titillating.
"Well," House narrated to the window, "we met at a medical conference in New Orleans in... 1991."
He huffed through his nose, correcting himself, "That's not entirely true. We didn't meet at the conference. We met at the jail closest to the hotel that everyone attending the conference was staying at. Specifically, the jail closest to the bar in the hotel that everyone was staying at. I bailed Wilson out after he got arrested for vandalism, assault, destruction of property, and possession with intent to sell of cocaine."
House paused and looked to Nolan.
"That's a lie, but if it's what you would like to tell me, I will accept that," Dr. Nolan said, tilting his head.
"Okay, the cocaine stuff was fake, but the other charges are true. Honestly, he shouldn't have been charged with assault. The bar fight that commenced wasn't even his fault. But when you throw a bottle of whiskey into a thousand-dollar antique mirror in a fit of rage, the cops aren't exactly trying to put themselves in your shoes. Anyway, I dropped 3.5k... and that's how Mommy and Daddy met," House concluded, letting one of his hands fiddle with the end of his cane, pushing it from finger to finger.
"Interesting. Why did you post bail? If you didn't even know him," Dr. Nolan asked. House shrugged.
"I was bored."
Nolan did that stupid therapist thing where they stay silent and don't respond in order to encourage you to continue talking. House was onto his little mind games, but he decided to be a good pupil and play along.
"That conference was a drag, and he gave a hell of a show. Figured I'd reward that. He seemed like an interesting guy. Also, I'd seen him carrying around a packet of papers, and he'd set them up on the bar. Could've only been divorce papers. I wanted to know if he was a lonely, tired bastard, or just a bastard. That's why I bailed him out," House said with a theatrical finish.
"Any other reason?"
House eyed him, trying to understand what undercurrent Nolan was angling at.
"No."
"Okay," Dr. Nolan said, picking up the oft-ignored pad of paper and writing something short midway down the page.
House crunched his face in displeasure and halted the motion of his cane between his fingers, "You don't seem convinced."
"I am convinced," Dr. Nolan set down the pad, "It's not my place to tell you what you feel, or why you did something. It's my job to help you understand why you feel what you feel and figure out the motive behind the actions you take in your life. If you tell me something flat-out, it does neither of us any good for me to discount that."
House was silent for a moment.
"You've told me how you and Wilson met, but I'd like to hear more about your friendship. I think your relationship with Wilson impacts a lot of things in your life, maybe even more facets than you know."
House scratched a hand over his newly buzzed hair absently.
"We... work at the same hospital. We like most of the same people, and hate most of the same people - though Wilson would swear he doesn't hate. We both like watching sand volleyball, and monster truck rallies, and boxing matches, and lame cooking shows on TV. We eat takeout - Chinese, Thai, or just pizza. We both drink. We watch porn."
Dr. Nolan crooked an eyebrow.
"Separately. Just making sure you're still paying attention. He likes those super slow European ones where everything's drawn out and romantic. What a waste of time. I'm more tasteful - I'm not an eighty-year-old woman - so I usually go for the tried and true stuff. I snuck a couple disks in if you need to borrow one - I can't see you getting much action," House said.
Dr. Nolan allowed himself a slight tilt of the lips, but somehow it seemed more at House's expense rather than at his joke.
"Are you trying to shock me? Because nothing you say is going to be able to," Dr. Nolan told him. House smirked, eyes lighting up with the prospect of a challenge.
"You really should not have said that," House said.
"I'm serious. You seem to struggle with that. Being serious. Expressing what you're really thinking."
"It's not you, it's me."
"How often would you say you are quote-on-quote, serious with James?"
"Oh my God, this sounds like couples counseling, not drug counseling," House complained.
"This isn't meant to be drug counseling. We don't talk in an attempt to just break your addiction. That's a surface-level result of the base-level things I'm trying to help you with," was all Dr. Nolan said, leaving House's first point unaddressed. House noticed.
"Is it couples counseling?"
"I don't see anyone here but you, House. But..." Dr. Nolan said, tilting his head, leaving his phrase unfinished.
Suddenly, House understood. He felt his heart drop (obviously, he knew it didn't drop, such flowery language pissed him off - it was an ectopic beat - but 'drop' was an apt descriptor), and it felt like there was a Vicodin in his throat that he was struggling to dry-swallow.
"No. You think that Wilson and I could... no. It's not like that."
"Like what?"
"Wilson and I... you don't understand what you're saying. He doesn't... we don't," House blathered, wanting to punch himself with each fractured sentence escaping from his mouth.
"Are you sure?" asked Dr. Nolan, pretending House's answer had been comprehensible.
"What happened to accepting whatever I tell you?" House shot back, defensive.
"That's not what I said. If you want to lie to me, that's your prerogative. But, I want to ensure you're not lying to yourself," Dr. Nolan said.
"I'm not lying to myself. Even if I were, it doesn't matter," House said, looking down at his jeans. They were stiff and rough, and had started to aggravate him sometime between Nolan asking him about bail and now.
"What makes you say that? That it 'doesn't matter'?"
House wiped a hand down his face. This session was getting less and less fun, and those parked cars in the lot were looking easier and easier to hotwire.
"Do you understand what 'doesn't matter' means? It means we don't need to talk about it," he said.
"I disagree," was Dr. Nolan's short retort. After waiting for a good uncomfortable-amount-of-time, and realizing waiting for Dr. Nolan to move on wasn't the route Nolan had in mind, House resigned himself to dying in his chair silently. House heard the sound of Nolan shuffling around in his own chair (he didn't see it - he was looking out the window) and the crinkling of a paper being set to the side.
"Gregory, I don't want you to feel... trapped, talking about this."
"You gonna let me out of this joint if I tell you I desire Wilson carnally?"
"I meant metaphorical entrapment, not physical."
For what felt like the thirtieth time that morning, House said nothing. He looked away from the window and to Dr. Nolan, in time to see him nodding shallowly before speaking again.
"If you really think it so unnecessary to discuss you and Wilson in a romantic light, as we both know I was trying to get you to do: I will concede. But I want you to seriously ask yourself why you are so hesitant to even broach the subject. If it were so out of the realm of possibility that it were laughable, I think you would have no problem berating me for my opinion. If it repulsed you or made you deeply uncomfortable to think of your best friend in that way for even a moment, I think you would say that. I want you to spend some time considering what it is you don't want to say," Dr. Nolan said.
-
"Good morning, House," Dr. Nolan said, as House eased himself down into the chair slowly. The pain was bad today. But, when wasn't it? Curse you infarction, curse you Vicodin tolerance, curse you mental institution that limited his pill intake, and curse you emotional pain that allegedly made his physical pain worse.
Dr. Nolan finished flipping through a few papers on his desk and then made his way over to sit across from House in his typical fashion: legs crossed at the ankle, paper and pencil just in reach. The sun was at an awkward angle this morning, keeping House from looking out his favorite window (what a lame thing to have a favorite of) lest he be met with its scorching power directly into his corneas.
"Is there anything specific you'd like to begin our conversation with today?" Dr. Nolan asked. House let his head jerk to the side as he sucked a performatively girlish gasp in through his mouth.
"My white guilt," he said.
"We can certainly talk about the guilt you feel in your life. And, since you are a white American man, everything revolves around your whiteness," Dr. Nolan said.
"Touché," said House. Dr. Nolan cleared his throat and, at the wave of House's hand giving the go-ahead, spoke.
"How about we discuss your tasks from last time?" he suggested.
"O-kay. I thought about the way I view my accomplishments from before the infarction. I actually painted an oil painting in tribute of my successes. I got a call from the Louvre saying they were interested in displaying it, but then Alvie got ahold of it and..." he shook his head, "now there's red marker all over it that just says 'Give me a different roommate'."
"I'm glad you thought about it, but I'd like to hear if you actually did anything. And you do realize you can speak to me about Juan without creating some fictitious story, right?"
"No, I didn't do anything. I thought about it, that's what you asked. And for one, who says it's fiction? And for two, I assumed you aren't able to talk about fellow patients," House said. He ran a hand over his thigh lightly, trying to convince the pain to jump ship into his hand and give his leg a break.
"You know as well as I do that I am able to listen to anything you have to say. I may not be able to say anything about Alvie, but that doesn't mean I can't hear your thoughts," Dr. Nolan said, undeterred.
"I want a new roommate," House said plainly. Dr. Nolan's cheek twitched just enough for House to wonder if he was smiling.
"No."
"You just said-"
"I will listen to all you have to say, but I won't grant all your wishes. I think the only problems between you and Alvie are the problems you would have with any patient here," Dr. Nolan said seriously.
"Then the solution seems obvious, give me my own room," House ordered. Dr. Nolan didn't even deign that worthy of a response.
"Did you realize anything when thinking about your previous accomplishments?" he asked after a moment's silence, studiously continuing on. House debated answering at all. Wasn't the whole point to make progress in your own head? Why did he need to speak it out loud? But, he'd told himself he would try, he'd try what Nolan said because the man seemed to know what he was doing.
"Um, I just thought about," he scratched across his forehead to give himself something to do with his hands, "that losing some of this," he gestured toward his ruined muscle, "didn't make me less of a person. It limited what I could do, and made me less of a doctor, which in turn made me less of a person."
"I don't believe your leg made you less of a doctor."
"Right, having my leg made me more of a doctor. What's left of my leg made me less of a doctor."
"Don't be a smart aleck," Dr. Nolan said.
"Say ass, I dare you."
"I don't believe what happened to your leg made you less of a doctor."
"Of course, that's what you'd decide to say," House said.
"Would you rather me say that seeing yourself as less than because of your disability is extremely common, but extremely irrational? Or maybe that, it doesn't sound like you made much progress at all because your thinking still landed you in the same self-pitying spot? Because those things are true," Dr. Nolan said evenly, and House felt his metaphorical claws unsheath.
"You think I'm self-pitying?" he bit out harshly.
"I think everyone is self-pitying about something. I think you don't let yourself be truly self-pitying, which in and of itself is good, but you transform that into self-hatred, which isn't," Dr. Nolan said. His voice wasn't gentle, House was sure Nolan knew that wouldn't be tolerated, but instead it was straightforward. As if these were just the facts, and House could choose to accept them or deny them. House gave the barest hint of a nod, and Dr. Nolan let them sit in silence - giving House time to let that sink in, presumably. After what Nolan apparently considered a passable stretch of time, perhaps he had begun to get annoyed by the steady tapping House was doing on his rehab-sanctioned cane, he shifted himself around. The minute movement was always a good indicator that Nolan was about to move on.
"What about your other task?" he asked. House was sure his discomfort was betrayed by the quick shuttering of his eyes and the tick of his jaw. Maybe, had he taken six Vicodin, he'd be able to tone it down, but as it was, he could do nothing to control his reaction.
Wilson. He'd thought about him - of course, he'd thought about him. He was always thinking about him. And he'd come to the same conclusion he always did: no. No, he could not consider it, no, he could not allow himself to feel it, no, Wilson would never feel it.
It wasn't even real. He wasn't even-
He didn't like men.
That was that.
"Thought about it," he said lowly, making steady eye contact with the end of his cane.
"And?" Dr. Nolan probed. House could feel his heartbeat all the way up in his cheeks, pumping blood upward - hopefully not enough to flush his face, that would be far too embarrassing.
"And there's nothing to say. I don't think this is the big revelation you want it to be," he said sharply.
"I wasn't looking for you to have a revelation," Dr. Nolan said, and he seemed to realize something, and there was a sudden shift in his posture, a softening. "Let me tell you what I was thinking. I want to pry into your mind; it's only fair you get to see into my thought process. When I hear about your relationship with Dr. Wilson, I see codependency. I see a friendship that isn't entirely healthy, that is flawed, but it's strong. It's strong enough to last the test of time, of pain, and of you. Because I've gotten to know you, and I know you test everything - I wouldn't be surprised if yours was the hardest to pass. I see something that, were it allowed to become anything, I believe would become something that could greatly benefit the both of you," he said quietly, letting his words fill the air, "I think you and James... have a bond that the both of you know is very strong. So, I think you attempt to dig deeper where you already are, instead of going forward, because you are afraid. Of what? That's not my place to say. I'm not saying you and James need to... become a couple, don't think that. I think you need to allow your friendship to naturally progress into whatever the next stage is. From my point of view, you two force each other into inaction."
House wet his lips with the end of his tongue to give himself an excuse not to speak. He wasn't sure what to say to that. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say to that.
"Can I hear your thoughts?" Dr. Nolan asked. When House flicked his eyes up to meet his therapist's, the other man's face was open, non-judgmental.
"I don't know. I don't know what you want me to say," House said lowly.
"I don't want to hear what you think I want you to say. Be honest, House," he urged. House took a long moment to gather his thoughts and the will to voice them. But if he couldn't say them here, where could he? He worked his jaw in frustration.
"I am the worst person in Wilson's life. And he's probably the worst person in mine. But it's not - it's not bad. The part of me that everyone hates is... what Wilson likes. I think we let each other see the worst parts, so it's hard to let each other see the good. 'Cause then we'd each know everything," House laughed slightly - drily and humorlessly.
"When I put it like that, our friendship sounds like hell. But it's just easy. How we've always been," House said.
"Do you think you really never have good moments?" Dr. Nolan asked. He had picked up that godforsaken notepad again, but House did his best to ignore it (he couldn't).
"It's not that I don't think we have good times. We laugh, we enjoy stuff, we're... there for each other. Sometimes. More than anyone else ever is. But the good times aren't what make us stay. We stay friends because... well, I guess, I stay because I know I can't break it. At least, I haven't been able to yet. The good, you can have with anybody. The bad..." House said slowly, trailing off. It may not have been grammatically correct, but it was the end of the thought, and the end of his sentence.
"Mmm," Dr. Nolan hummed in acknowledgment. "There's something I want you to do, Gregory, and I don't think you're going to like it."
Oh joy.
"I'd like you to write to James. Letters, that is."
House huffed, clearly wanting to dismiss the idea, "Why? I know you said that stuff about how you think he affects my life, but it really doesn't have anything to do with why I'm here."
"I think that conversing with James about some things will affect 'why you're here'."
"So, if I write him a letter about... my feelings, you'll let me out of here?"
"Don't get ahead of yourself. But, yes, participating in this will make me feel as though you are making progress. Because you will be - you'll be trying something I recommended," Dr. Nolan looked at House, and House had a feeling he was being examined, "It doesn't just have to be your feelings. I'm purposely leaving this open-ended. I just want you to be more honest with James. I want to know that when you get out of Mayfield, you will have a good support system. And I want you to know that you have the power to make changes in your life. To make things better: whether that be relationships, conflict, or your own internal struggles."
"Fine," House said, conceding.
"I won't ask to read your letters to James, or his responses - I hope he will respond - that would be unproductive for the both of us. But I will be monitoring incoming and outgoing mail to make sure that you are doing your part," Dr. Nolan said seriously; when he drew up his face like this, House often thought he could pull off being an interrogator, or police officer. Honestly, what was the difference between psychologist and suspect interrogator? Not much.
"Too afraid you're going to see a polaroid with more of Jimmy than you've ever wished to see?"
"I rather think that's what you're afraid of," Dr. Nolan quipped. House allowed himself a surprised bark of laughter.
-
Wilson,
Writing you was an assignment from the psychologist here. He's an annoying bastard, but he seems to know what he's talking about, so I haven't ignored him yet. And he's going to be watching to see if I actually mail anything out and if you send me anything back, so don't make me look like a loser. Actually, if you want to be useful, mail me back some Vicodin cause this sucks. But at least I'm not hallucinating anymore.
House
-
Dear House,
It's good to hear from you. I'm glad you made it through detoxing without killing someone, I'm sure that was hell. I think it's great that you're willing to listen, at least for now, to your psychologist. But don't think I'm not interested in what kind of a man (or woman) was able to keep you in line. Maybe I need to take some notes. You're already a loser, but I heard you're supposed to be extra supportive in times like these, so I cut you a little slack and wrote you back. I enclosed some peanut butter M&Ms, hopefully that'll make a dent in your desire for pills (if they don't confiscate them).
No hallucinations is good. Very good. But, I won't gush cause I know if I show any more feelings, you'll shoot me point blank when I come to pick you up from Mayfield.
PPTH is surviving without you, as I'm sure you were convinced it couldn't. But it's definitely less entertaining. The only interesting gossip I can think of right now is that you were right, that red-haired nurse from the ICU is pregnant. I'm NOT enclosing your twenty dollars, but hopefully this proof of your winnings will fuel you.
I don't know if your assignment was just to write me once, but if it was, I hope you'll write me again anyway.
Sincerely,
Wilson
-
Wilson,
You're in luck, the assignment was to write more than once. But you've got to start writing less like an old woman. If you write "Dear House" again and Alvie sees it, I'll never live it down. He's already hit his head on his bedframe once because he saw me penning this letter and lost his mind, wondering who I was writing to. I don't know how many times I had to tell him no, I didn't have a wife, or a girlfriend, or a boyfriend. Nosy little bitch.
Alvie's my roommate. He's bipolar, and is probably the worst person here I could've been paired with. He talks my ear off at all hours. You talked about my shooting you point blank when you pick me up, but I've considered shooting myself to get him to shut up. But that probably wouldn't make a dent in it, he'd just stand over my body all "Oh my! House's dead! Anyway, what do you guys think we should do with the body? I've heard on the black market eyes can go for crazy big money!"
Good thing no one's reading my letters, otherwise a statement about shooting myself could get me another six months in a joint like this.
Nothing will fuel me but your cold hard cash. It's hard for me to believe that you care when there's no monetary proof. Nolan (my therapist, prison ward, and the only guy who can free me) knows I dropped $3,500 to bail you out of jail. Who knows what he'll think of you when he hears you can't even pay up your end of a bet?
Send me a magazine (you know what kind) with your next letter. Or just send the mag.
House
-
Dear House,
It's not feminine to use proper writing etiquette. Looks like you'll have to hope Alvie doesn't find it. Honestly, I'm touched you keep my letters. I knew you needed something to keep you warm in the trenches, darling.
Speaking of "keeping you warm", I am NOT sending you porn, House. I did, however, include your $20. I wouldn't want Nolan getting the wrong impression. However, I can't help but wonder what you're saying to Nolan about me. Obviously, you don't have to tell me, but I checked with Cuddy and Blythe (don't kill me), and neither of them are receiving letters from you. I thought maybe it was a making amends thing like in AA, but I'm the only one.
Alvie sounds entertaining. But, I do find joy in anything that pisses you off so...
I know you'll be filled with all kinds of warm and fuzzy feelings to hear that Cameron and Chase's marriage is as gooey as ever. One good thing about Mayfield may be that you don't have to be a part of whatever jealousy thing Foreman's got going on right now. He keeps lurking around and rolling his eyes at Cameron and Chase. Weird. He shouldn't be too worried, though. As a man who has great experience in failed marriages, I think I know when one is doomed from the start.
Last night I bought too much Chinese food out of habit, and now a bunch of it is sitting in my fridge. Wish I could ship you Chow Mein, but I'm not sure it would hold up too well. It didn't taste as good without your company. Maybe I'm lame for only having one friend because I certainly miss you. But I'm sure that's enough feelings for your taste.
Hope you are still doing well and making progress, and hope to hear from you soon.
Proud of you,
Wilson
-
Wilson,
I shouldn't be surprised you asked Cuddy and my mother, and yet somehow I still am. I will be killing you, but maybe I'll just slip you small increments of something deadly over the span of five years.
Nolan told me to write to you because he thinks our friendship is being "forced into inaction." His words, not mine. He wanted me to feel like I could go to you about stuff. And I do. I feel like I can. I just don't think I'm sure how that works.
He thinks that we are scared or something of being fully honest about... I don't know. Anything.
So, I'll tell you some stuff. He thinks this will help and God help me, he hasn't been wrong yet.
I think about killing myself a lot. The jokes are just that - jokes - so don't feel like we can't make them. But the pain is bad. Obviously it's bad because it's pain. Some days are worse than others, and some days I need it to stop more than others. So I think about it. My rationality always wins in the end, but sometimes I'm afraid one day it won't. But that's stupid because apparently, I'm a genius, my rationale will always win out. It just sucks, and sometimes I think the life I lead isn't worth the pain I have to endure. I don't know.
Sometimes I wish you'd been there and not Stacy after the infarction. I wish you'd had the power she had instead. I know you had your wife of the year, and I don't blame you, but I wish you had been the one to make the choice. I like to think you'd side with me, but maybe, even if things had ended the same, it would've been easier to deal with by your hand. I don't think I want to know what you would have done. If the answer is the same thing as Stacy, that would be hard for me to swallow. So, I won't ask. But I want you to know that I want to know, if that makes sense. And I wish I didn't have something to regret.
This will be the last deep thing because I'm boring myself just writing about it, and I'm sure it will come to you as no surprise that telling you this is not very damn easy for me. I'm sorry about what happened with Tritter. I'm sorry about a hundred thousand things when it comes to you, but I've been thinking about that the most recently. I put you in such a compromising position. I could've ruined your career, you could've gone to jail (and we all know a thing like you wouldn't survive there, am I right?), and you could've had everything crumble all because I'm an addict. You didn't deserve that. You don't deserve half the crap I put you through, but you put up with it because that's us. I talked to Nolan about that, too. He thinks we should try to let each other see the good, whatever the hell that means. I'm sure an in-touch-with-his-feelings guy like you would know. Anyway, though, I'm not sorry you forgave me. Even if I think I don't deserve it, I'll never be sorry that you always forgive me.
Thank you, and don't make me regret this,
House
-
Dear House,
Thank you. Thank you for telling me. I want to know this stuff. I want to know what's bothering you, and I want to know what you struggle with, and I want to help you. And NOT just because I "need" neediness. Because, I guess, because I need you. Before I go on, I need to tell you something. Because if I don't, I don't think it's fair to you. You need to know. You said Nolan wants us to be fully honest. I know that won't ever be easy for us in any situation, but I know there's something you have to know if honesty is even a twinkle in Nolan's eye.
I feel strongly for you, House. Not just as a friend. As more. I have for a while - far too long. I feel like I'm having a panic attack writing this down, and who knows? Maybe I'll chicken out and crumple this up and write you a new letter where I don't tell you about my love for you. But... I think if you're trying to be open with me and more good, it's only fair you know what I'm coming to the table with. I'm not even sure how long I've known that I feel this way. It's just always there. I understand if you don't want to write me anymore, if you don't want me to pick you up from Mayfield, or if you just need a while before you can think of me as your best friend again after my, I guess I'd call it a confession?
If you are still reading, I want to talk about what you shared with me. I will never understand your pain, but I do understand just wanting everything to stop. That's why I'm on the "speed", as you know. If I haven't ruined everything, call me when you feel like that. Even if it's the middle of the night - especially if it's the middle of the night. Even if it's 2 PM and I'm with a patient, let me be there for you. It's not a burden. You aren't a burden to me.
I won't say too much about the paragraph about the infarction because you expressed what you don't want me to say. All I will tell you is that I, too, wish I had been there, and that when I think of Stacy, still the main feeling I feel is overwhelming anger. When she came back to PPTH, I was livid. You should've heard my inner monologue. I was so angry at her, among other feelings that I'm sure you can guess. She had no right. And, were you to tell me right now you wanted me to drive you across the country to toilet paper her house, I think I'd say yes. I hope that helps a tiny bit.
Thank you for apologizing. I know why you did what you did. That doesn't excuse your actions, but I understand that everything to you is seen through the lens of avoiding pain. I hope Mayfield is continuing to help you manage that.
I feel as though I should share something as well. Something honest. Other than the - you know. I'll tell you about Danny, because he was the most honest person I know. I went to see him again, and I'm not sure I'll go back. I probably should. But I should do a lot of things. It's just hard to talk to a man that I barely know, and yet I feel like I ruined his life. It's obvious he doesn't want me there. He wasn't mean or off-putting or anything. It's just as I said, we don't know each other. We're not brothers anymore. I think we stopped really being brothers the day I didn't pick up that phone.
I hope you don't regret everything,
Wilson
-
"You're a few minutes late, so I hope you don't-"
"Wilson said he's in love with me."
The office grew silent, comically quickly. It seemed that all sound had ceased to exist, just as all House's rational thinking had ceased to exist the moment he'd read "Not just as a friend." There was no talking of other patients, humming of a furnace, or rumbling of a car driving by. Dr. Nolan's hand had paused where he had set it against his stomach, and appeared to be trying to gauge House's reaction. There was a smudge of lipstick - some dark pink thing, probably called Strawberry Desire or something equally cringe-worthy - barely visible on the crisp edge of Nolan's collar. Perhaps House had been wrong before when he'd assumed he wasn't getting any action. Nolan's eyebrows were raised in curiosity when House lifted his eyes from the other man's collar. He seemed to be waiting for House to say something else, something more. But House hadn't known what to say since forty-five minutes ago when he'd read that letter. The thoughts streaming through his head like water running off the side of a waterfall, crashing to the depths, had been a steady stream of denial, desire, defiance, and something akin to fear.
With hands that were sure only due to his many years of emergency operations, House reached into the pocket of his jeans and withdrew the letter. It was folded in thirds and didn't bend underneath its own weight when House held it out to Nolan.
"Just read it," he ordered, voice raw and harsh.
Dr. Nolan shook his head almost imperceptibly, his defiance stoking the fire in House's veins.
"The contents of that letter belong only to you and to James."
"This doesn't belong to me. It belongs to him," he said, the words torn out of his throat, as if sonances were able to escape from a tracheostomy he didn't have.
"You are saying you don't return his feelings?" Dr. Nolan asked. House withdrew his outstretched hand and let the aforementioned letter fall to rest mostly in the space between his knees. He rubbed a clenched fist into the dent in his thigh hard enough to burn. Damn.
"I'm saying I can't."
"Why?"
House let out a low sound, maybe like a growl, if that didn't make him seem too caveman-esque. The fist rubbing against his thigh came to slam down onto the cushioned arm of his chair.
"You make it sound so easy," he spat, "You have no idea what you're encouraging. Wilson and I - we don't indulge each other. This is the type of game we don't play."
"I don't think he's playing a game, Gregory. Were you honest with him?" Dr. Nolan asked, unafraid of the directionless anger House had exploded with.
"You and your honesty. A lot of good honesty does when all it tells you is that you're a goddamn pansy. Yes, I told him stuff I hadn't before. And how did he reward me? 'My love for you' ," he mocked.
"What are you so angry at House? You need to express it; put it into words," Dr. Nolan guided. Something broke inside House, and the stuff he'd been pushing down, letting simmer, boiled over uncaring.
"I'm angry because he's clearly blind! How many years have I wanted him? How many jokes have I made just barely disguising it, draping it with goddamn see-through cloth? And he never said anything. Never said a thing. I could've had him ages ago. But instead, we said nothing. We sat on my couch, and we drank so we could pretend we didn't feel our legs pressing together and did nothing, and then went to our separate rooms, and woke up and did nothing, and talked about women we would sleep with, and fought over tiny, idiotic things, and did nothing! I was too tired to pull my head out of my ass and say something! It's been years. I met Wilson in 1991, and I'd have kissed him that night if he asked," House's breathing was ragged, his chest heaving as he fought for breath after his yelling. He let the things he'd never let himself voice, even in his own head, settle into the room like dust from something old finally being shaken into the light. The world was no different following his 'confession' as Wilson had dubbed his own: he was still spinning 800 miles an hour, powerless against the Earth's rotation, the wind was still blowing, the rain pattering against the window in fat droplets was still pouring. He was being proven wrong. Because that's what he'd been afraid of. That the world wouldn't be allowed to continue on if anyone knew.
Dr. Nolan let him settle into the feeling of having exposed himself so thoroughly, only giving him enough time to understand it, not to balk, before speaking.
"Just because you regret the past, doesn't mean you can't make changes for the future. It's like your patient flatlined, and you're pretending they had a DNR. There's not no coming back from this, House," he said. House let his head hang forward, very tired.
"Let's talk about what you really want, not what you pretend you want," Dr. Nolan said irrefutably.
-
Wilson,
I don't regret everything. Just a lot. But none of what I regret is what you mean when you said you hoped I don't regret everything.
I regret being so stupid. And I regret letting you be so equally stupid.
I want you. I've wanted you for so long. You're such an idiot for being afraid I wouldn't keep writing to you, that I wouldn't want you to be the one getting me away from this place once I'm done. I always want you around. It's always been you I wanted. Reading your letter felt like getting sucker punched in the face. And trust me, I know what that feels like. I just felt so goddamn angry at both of us for wasting so much time. For deluding myself into thinking things I don't actually think. For being afraid. I'm not supposed to be afraid of anything, and here I was, panicking over my fractured heterosexuality.
I talked to Nolan about a lot of things today, but 'us' was the main thing. If you don't want to stay stagnant in our friendship anymore, I want to try this. Try us. Preferably when I get out, but if you want to send me some scantily clad Polaroids now, I won't turn them down. I already got them approved in a roundabout way through Nolan. We've got a lot of time to make up for.
Go see Danny again. You're terrible at reading people close to you, and if you don't go again now, in ten years you're going to regret it. Bring him some pie or something, I don't know. Make it a thing, don't make it a thing, it's up to you. But do it.
If you want to see me before my stint here is up, there's going to be a talent show thing next Friday. I'm told friends and family can come. 7pm, you know the address.
I feel strongly about you too, moron,
House
-
House saw his hair before he saw anything else; it was slightly shorter, and he'd obviously just run his fingers through it. Poor Jimmy, probably stressed. The fact that House had actually spent twelve minutes trying to decide what to wear before huffing an extremely annoyed breath at himself, and throwing on the nearest shirt and pants was unimportant. That wasn't a sign of nerves, it was a sign of... yeah, it was a sign of nerves. Wilson was wearing a blue quarter-zip sweater thing and a pair of seldom-seen jeans. House had just enough time to take in the sight of him before the younger man spotted him and raised his hand in an awkward wave, making his way over to House. He bumped into a nurse on the way over and steadied her with a clumsy hand and a glance of 'Oops!' toward House. House did his best to stifle a grin.
Reaching the diagnostician, Wilson too, took a once-over. Probably taking in House's new haircut - something he hadn't mentioned in their letters - and his attire. The corner of Wilson's lips curled up in amusement when he read the print on the shirt Chase had mailed to House when he first had been admitted, along with a note saying, "Behave yourself." It was a dark gray t-shirt that said 'LET ME KNOW IF MY BICEPS GET IN THE WAY', and while House had not sent anything back through the mail, he would surely be giving the Australian doctor some serious crap on why he was looking when he got out. It did accomplish making House smirk, which was probably what Chase had been going for, the softie.
"You look good," Wilson said lowly, privately. His big, stupid eyes were shining with mirth and something else House couldn't quite name. Maybe satisfaction?
"Same to you, Boy Wonder," House rumbled. Wilson stepped forward some more, seemingly without telling his legs they could, and the tips of his pretentious shoes nicked the toes of House's decidedly not-pretentious ones.
"Whoa, whoa. What kind of a joint do you think this is?" House teased, and Wilson took a small step back, but one of his hands snaked out and grabbed House's wrist, slowly rubbing the skin on the inside. The men were silent for a moment, in which the rest of the people at Mayfield and anything but them melted away in an annoyingly fairytale-esque fasion.
"Can I kiss you?" Wilson asked, the words warming the space between them.
"Right here?" House retorted, already knowing he'd concede, "Never pegged you for a public kinda guy, Wilson."
"Yeah, well, we've got a lot to make up for, you said," he murmured, almost a laugh.
Before House could fire something back, however, he saw something darken the bottom half of Wilson's face. Tearing his eyes away and looking to the side, he was greeted with the sight of an extremely eager Alvie, smiling Jay-Bird, and a strong-emotion-less Richter.
"Oh my God!" Alvie said loudly, "House, you dog. You told me you didn't have a boyfriend! Everybody lies, amiright?"
He clapped a hand on House's back, and the older man grit his teeth, mourning the loss of Wilson's hand, where he had let go of his wrist and was now obviously trying not to laugh. Alvie sucked in a gasp, still smiling.
He leaned in conspiratorially, "Or is he your fiancé? That's a good strategy. Cause then you didn't lie, but you didn't tell me anything either. Sneaky, H-man, very sneaky."
House glared at the bouncing bottle of energy in front of him.
"Alvie. This unlabeled man and I were just about to lock lips, do you mind scurrying off?" he grit out. Alvie whistled and Jay-Bird chuckled, punching Alvie in the shoulder.
"My bad! You do your thing. And you too, unlabeled man! I'll be in the corner practicing my rap skills, though, do they really need practice?"
"Yes," House interrupted quietly.
"Course you don't need to practice your musical talents, cause you've got that doctorly confidence. See ya!" he said, obviously wondering what he himself meant by doctorly confidence. Alvie turned, but not before whispering something to Richter and Jay-Bird that made them roll their eyes and laugh, respectively. Leaving the wall/alcove/place with not very many people House had chosen on purpose, and taking the other two men with him, he whistled a tune that sounded suspiciously like "It's Raining Men."
"So, you're performing? You didn't tell me that," Wilson said when the interlopers were sufficiently out of earshot.
"Didn't want you getting overexcited," House replied and then smirked, "Hey, Wilson?"
Wilson inclined his head, raising his eyebrows in an approximation of 'Yes?'
"I remember you saying something about our lips, boy-kisser," he said.
"Shut up," Wilson ordered, and lifted a hand to the back of House's head, pulling him in slowly enough to allow the older man to pull away. Like he'd ever do that. Wilson's hand felt weird against the new, buzzed hairs on the back of his head, and he wondered what it felt like against Wilson's hand. Probably hair, dumbass.
Wilson pressed their lips together softly, gently, and relatively appropriately for the non-empty room. His lips were warm (obviously) and soft (unsurprisingly), and he was confident when he moved them against House's. At some point in the last two seconds, Wilson had brought his other hand to grasp House's wrist again - was this going to be a thing? It could certainly be a thing - and House had rested a calloused hand against the fabric of Wilson's sweater. Just as the kiss reached over-PDA length, Wilson drew back, finding himself. Both men breathed deeply.
"That what you wanted?" Wilson asked, unable to wipe the smile off his face.
"Hmm, I don't know. Better do it again to be sure."
"Nice try - there's five minutes 'til the talent show, and I don't feel like missing your rendition of 'Wild Honey'," Wilson snickered. House felt his face jump in surprise.
"How did you-" he asked, and saw Wilson's eyes fixed at a point just behind his shoulder. He spun to see Alvie holding up 'HE'S SINGING WILD HONEY' scratched in black marker across two pieces of paper taped together a few feet back.
"Why that little-" he started, but was halted by a strong hand on his arm.
"Calm down, House. I'm excited to hear it, honey," Wilson told him, eyes dancing.
"Yeah, yeah," House said, pulling Wilson by the back of his neck into another firm kiss, uncaring of who might see. Let them talk; this had been a long time coming, and he wasn't stopping himself now that they were both on this 'honesty' thing.
He wanted to kiss Wilson, and he didn't care who saw, honest.