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House hadn’t bothered to pick up the scattered medical journals lying like mass graves all over his apartment floor, instead choosing to ignore the mess and solely concentrate on the one thing he did rescue: his electric guitar. Strumming it appreciatively, he rocked out a tune as rain splattered his windows, the harsh wind tearing branches off the tree that House couldn’t see. He had his back turned to the elements, his field of view comprising the warm woody hues of his home sweet home.
Life was good. His patient was diagnosed and could spend his last three months gorging on hospital food. Tritter was probably picking through all of his prescriptions with a flashlight between his teeth to check the handwriting. Not like he’d need a flashlight. Okay, he had been sloppy with the forging, but did that really matter?
One stupid clinic patient almost turned his life upside down. Still, even in such a storm of uncertainty, House knew that Wilson would never rat him out.
“House,” came his best friend’s voice, tone strained as the key slid in and Wilson shuffled out of the cold.
“What’re you doing here?” House asked, still strumming, albeit slower now, fingers tensing over taut string as he looked Wilson up and down.
“Tritter came to my hotel,” Wilson said, closing the door behind him. He was uncharacteristically cold, jaw set like choosing to come here had been a hard decision.
“Did he bring lotion?”
“You forged prescriptions.”
“I needed—”
“You could’ve asked!” Raising his voice, Wilson approached House, who had already cleverly tucked his guitar away, behind his piano. “You know I would’ve given—”
“I did ask,” House snarled, stumbling to his feet and wincing when his leg protested. “You were with your little cancer babies and couldn’t—”
“Then wait.”
“Right. Next time you get a migraine, I’ll just—”
“You act like this is necessary, like you need this,” Wilson hissed, a vicious finger digging into House’s chest. “You have back-ups! Certainly more than enough to last you three hours.”
“Yeah, I wonder why I have back-ups at all,” House shot back, gripping Wilson’s finger and shoving it off him. “Your packaging had ‘reliable’ on the cover. I want a refund.”
“I don’t exist just to give you pills, House!” Exasperated, Wilson sighed and walked away, pacing in the living room as thunder grumbled in response. “I could get arrested, go to jail, lose my license—”
“Only if Tritter finds anything.”
“He isn’t called a detective for nothing!”
“He’s cut-rate at best, that’s why he’s getting so obsessed over this.”
“Right. Everybody that hates you is an incompetent fool. Sorry if I can’t agree with that logic right now.” Shaking his head, Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose before glaring at House. The man in question was standing, posture slouched like a teenage child, his eyes telling Wilson to get it out of his system.
Seething, Wilson spat, “You think that I’m overreacting.”
“That would certainly explain my attempts to calm you down.”
“God, you’re—”
“Insufferable? Detestable? C’mon, Wilson, spit it out,” House goaded, though Wilson was too focused on how his hand twitched around his cane to listen.
“Do you still have vicodin?” Wilson asked, suddenly concerned, eyes flicking up to meet House’s.
“I’ve…” House gestured vaguely, “I’ve got about a week’s supply. The rest… Tritter took.”
“Are you rationing?”
“I’m trying, but your outburst and everything has put me down a few.”
“Of course. The oncologist makes everything worse.”
“Just this one.”
“Do you want me to rat you out?”
“What, a few mean words are enough to send you scampering?” House scoffed, “Then you should’ve left a long time ago.”
“Wow. It’s interesting how I’m always in the wrong when you talk.”
“I only speak the truth.”
“Right,” Wilson huffed. A long stalemate ensued, both men simply standing and staring at each other from across the room. House wanted Wilson to leave. Wilson wanted House to keen.
With an awkward movement, House settled back down on his seat by the piano, muttering, “I might not be able to pay you the 15 grand.”
“I figured.”
Glancing up at Wilson, confused, House asked, “Then why give it to me?”
“Charity?” Wilson offered, shrugging noncomittally. “Friendship? Altruism? Or maybe just because I wanted to?”
“You wanted to pay out your nose for… what exactly?”
“A shoulder to cry on.”
“You are not getting your snot on this sleeve.”
Frustated, Wilson sighed and gave in. “Is this your complicated way of telling me that you want to pay me back some other way?”
“No, I was just curious.”
“Well, now that I’m thinking about it, I could use a foot massage or two.”
“Fuck you,” House chuckled, grinning over at where Wilson was smiling with his chin tucked in.
“Or…” Wilson mused, deep in thought, “I could give you a massage.”
“I think you got this whole repayment thing backwards.”
“You never let me help, even when I—”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Now you do. Your leg hurts, you’re low on vicodin, there’s no reason to reject me.”
“Actually, there is: I don’t want you to touch my peepee.”
Rolling his eyes, Wilson groaned, “It’s not that kind of massage.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“That’s what all of your hookers say,” Wilson corrected, rolling up his sleeves nonchalantly.
“I told you no.” House shifted on his seat.
“I’m just hot.”
“Then get out.”
Wilson did not budge. He stood resolutely in the middle of the straight line connecting the piano to the door, his forearms catching the light as lightning pierced the sky’s cold night.
House was done. “What are you doing, Wilson? You come in here whining about prescriptions, switch to massages and hookers, then brood in silence?” He narrowed his eyes. “Why did you come here?”
Wilson caught his gaze, tongue grazing the roof of his mouth as he fidgeted on the spot, clasping his hands together as if he were praying. Still, he stayed infuriatingly silent, expression locked in want even as his throat closed up.
“Just say it.” House rolled his eyes. What a drama queen.
“I just wanted to talk to you.”
“Bullshit. You could’ve done that over the phone.”
“You wouldn’t have picked up the phone.”
“Yeah, probably because I don’t want to talk to you.”
“And why’s that?”
“Nothing personal. My apartment just got trashed by some crappy cops,” House gestured towards the books strewn all over the floor. “Not really having a good day.”
As expected, Wilson started gathering the fallen soldiers and returning them to their proper places. He moved methodically and without complaint, sliding books into crevices and arranging them in ways House found so familiar.
“Did you memorize the layout of my home?”
“Uh, no.” Wilson finished tidying up the last pile before walking around the couch to stand in front of House. “I guess I just have a good eye.”
“Seeing’s one thing. Remembering’s another.” Looking up at Wilson, House eyed him, both hands perched on the curve of his cane.
“Can’t you just be impressed without analyzing it?”
“What sort of person, who is nothing like me, are you saying that to?” At Wilson’s soft sigh, House continued, “Plus, analyzing’s more fun than acceptance.”
“To you.”
“I get it; I’m oh so special. A pity my genes are never going to be passed down.”
“You think Tritter just likes special guys?”
House groaned. “Why do we have to bring him into the conversation?”
“He’s not going to give up.”
“Luckily, neither is my lawyer.” Then, House muttered, “If I’m paying 450 an hour, he better—”
“Is that why you can’t pay me back?”
Sucking in a breath, House admitted, “Yeah. I’ll… uh, after this, I’ll see if I still have enough left over.”
“How much do you have right now?”
“That’s confidential.”
“House.”
Sighing, House tapped his cane against hard wood. “40 grand in the bank.”
“Damn.” Wilson sent his condolences by exhaling and looking at him with those pitying brown eyes.
“Don’t worry. I’ll manage. Maybe take on a little debt, but—”
“No.”
“I’m not loaning from the mafia, Wilson. I just need to pay, like, 3 percent interest and—”
“You’ll loan from me.”
Studying Wilson’s face, House shook his head. “I can’t.”
“You won’t have to pay interest.” Wilson stared at him, eyes bleeding sincerity, as if he wasn’t giving House everything.
“I’m not taking your money, Wilson.”
Biting the inside of his cheek, Wilson huffed in that half-wry half-irritated way whenever House did something foolish. “You’re a crippled drug addict with a monthly income of 7k. I don’t think any reputable bank’s going to lend you a cent.”
“Why do you know my salary?”
Wilson’s jaw ticked slightly. “Cuddy told me.”
“No,” House dragged an accusatory finger up to point at the big fat liar. “You read my employment contract.” He shook his head in disbelief, the movement letting a simple question fall out, “How?”
“Well, HR’s been known to put off their annual lock checks.”
“You picked a lock?” House was stunned, baby blues wide and entirely on Wilson’s smug form.
“It’s easier than it looks.”
Still slack-jawed, House stared at Wilson in awe, as if his entire perception of the brown-haired oncologist had been uprooted and shredded, wood pulp bubbling like froth on the floor.
Relishing the win, Wilson went on, “So you’ll lend from me.”
Slowly regaining his composure, House mumbled, “That doesn’t sound like a question.”
“It’s me or the mafia, babydoll.”
House jerked at the pet name, scowling at Wilson’s fond smile, the salary and his contract momentarily forgotten as he warned him not to push it. After a beat, he added the keen Wilson had been fighting to see:
“Fine.”