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Wilson was sat on House’s couch, looking utterly exhausted. He had toed off his shoes at the foot of the sofa; unbuttoned the top of his pants, and was now slumped awkwardly in a way his back would be sorry for in the morning.
“You want something to drink?” House called from across the room. Wilson didn’t respond, so he decided to grab a few beers from the fridge anyway. “You know, it was bound to happen. I don’t know why you’re surprised.”
He returned to find Wilson staring blankly at the black screen of the television. “Jesus, stop moping,” he said, passing him a bottle. “You look like a kicked puppy.”
He sighed and took a long gulp, then mumbled. “I feel like a failure.”
“Well, you shouldn’t,” he collapsed beside him. “Three divorces is quite an achievement.”
“She said she felt ignored. How… I— I was right there and she still felt… invisible. What kind of husband does that?”
“Eh, it’s no big deal. Shit happens sometimes.”
“Maybe,” Wilson turned the bottle in his hand, mindlessly picking at the label. “But, I could’ve at least been better. It’s my fault.”
“She cheated,” he pointed out.
“Give it enough time and I would’ve cheated too. You know that.”
House didn’t say anything to that, and the room went silent for a beat too long. He needed something to dissolve the quiet, so he reached for the remote and switched to a random channel. Unfortunately, The Notebook played, right when Noah was reading to Allie.
“Fuck, Julie loved this movie,” Wilson’s voice cracked. House went to change the channel, but he stopped him. “I want to watch this.”
“Very moving, but I’d much rather put the sports channel on. I don’t think you should be watching this in your condition.”
“Just leave this on.”
Jesus Christ. This man was pathetic.
It wasn’t long before House had whipped out the expensive liquor hiding in the back of his cabinet. He poured himself two fingers and passed Wilson the bottle, figuring the man was going to need it. Wilson drank straight from it, pulling a sour expression like it burnt going down.
“Feeling better?” Wilson shook his head. “Then give it a few more of those.”
Around the third pull of the bottle House didn’t have to ask how he was feeling, because Wilson wasn’t holding back his tongue anymore.
“I feel terrible. I have to be the worst person ever. Am I a bad guy, House? Please tell me.”
“Uh, should I say no?”
“I had three women who promised to spend the rest of their lives with me, and all of them ended up miserable!” He laughed hollowly. “I spend every day of my life trying to help people, isn’t that ironic? I can’t even help the ones I love the most.”
As much as it was endearing listening to Wilson’s soliloquy, watching a man loop the same emotions was quickly losing its entertainment value. House took a slow sip of his glass, hoping the alcohol would make this situation less underwhelming.
“You’re not a bad guy, Wilson,” he put it simply. “But you want to be, because that excuse is easier to digest than the truth.”
Wilson pressed his lips together. “Then what’s wrong with me? I…”
“You’re an idiot. That’s what’s wrong with you. An idiot with a saviour complex.”
He let out a ragged breath. “So what,” he stared down the bottle. “I just shouldn’t care? I should be just like you?”
“You wouldn’t be able to stomach it. You want to be the good guy so badly that you treat your wives like hospital patients, then you fix them and act all surprised when they don’t rely on you anymore.”
Any words he was about to say died in his throat. Wilson laughed and must have knocked something loose as it quickly turned to a rasped cry. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “God. I’m fucked.”
House got up silently, grabbing his cane from against the sofa. He came back shortly with two spoons, dropping one onto his lap, with a large carton of chocolate ice cream cradled in his hands.
“No,” he waved his hand. “I’m not hungry.”
“Suit yourself,” he grumbled, melting back into the cushions and scooping out a large heap of goodness. It wasn’t long before Wilson was also eating straight from the carton.
By the time the movie hit its climax, when Allie finally recognised Noah, Wilson heavily drunk and crying. Salted tears streaked down his face, with the spoon of ice cream still in his mouth. He soon withdrew it and dropped his face into his hands.
“I can’t believe I— why— this was my third chance!” He hiccuped. “This is it for me, I’m going to die alone!”
House patted his back. “There, there,” he said tightly. He’s seen Wilson cry before, but never like this. “I’m sure you’ll adopt a kitten or something before you reach ninety, you won’t die alone.”
“I wanted to have kids and a family and.. now what? I’m thirty-eight and alone, I’ll never…” He couldn’t finish his melodramatic sentence. Wilson slumped heavily into House’s side, who wrapped a firm arm over his shoulder.
“Maybe the alcohol was a mistake, forgot how emotional you can get.”
“M’ so sorry,” he buried his face into House’s shirt, using it to wipe his tears. “Don’t leave me.”
“Trust me when I say I wish I could,” he found himself brushing the hair back against his forehead. “You’re really the bane of my existence.”
“I should call her,” he swiped a hand across his face. “I have things to say.”
“Not a good idea.”
But Wilson was already sat straight. “No, I should call her right now and just say it, she needs to hear how I feel,” he patted down his pants, then fished out his phone from his pocket.
House quickly plucked it from his grasp. Wilson didn’t need to wake up tomorrow both hungover and humiliated. He held it out of reach, causing Wilson to whine. “Houseuhhhh, give it back!”
Wilson struggled against his frame, when he couldn’t gather the balance to reach for it, he instead started to pull at House’s arm.
“Nope. Nothing good happens when drunk men decide to call their exes,” he held it out further.
“I have things to say to her!”
“So say them to me!“
He finally gave up and deflated against the pillows, his breath ragged and eyes puffy. For a second House thought he might lunge one final time for the phone, but he had seemed have completely given up.
He looked absolutely wrecked. The sight of him was oddly adorable; House almost wanted to gather him up like yarn into a hug and never let go.
“I hate everything.”
“I know. You’re especially going to hate yourself tomorrow.”
“Ugh don’t remind me. Put me out of my misery.”
The channel had changed after their commotion, the remote must have been pressed by one of their bodies. Now played a movie with a couple, who were embracing in slow motion against the door, making out.
“Turn this off,” Wilson mumbled. “I can’t watch this.”
House did, plunging the room into partial darkness, illuminated by only the streetlights outside and a dim lamp beside them. Wilson was spent, it was past midnight, so House decided it would be best to get the drunk man in for the night.
“C’mon, go to bed,” he stood up and nudged his side with his cane. “You deserve the luxury of sleeping on a mattress tonight.”
Wilson groaned, seemingly using all of his remaining energy to haul himself up. He was swaying with one hand braced on the couch. Then he grabbed onto House for stability, clutching at his shirt. “Easy, careful,” House said, wrapping an arm around him.
They managed a few steps before Wilson lost his footing. House had barely any time to think, and before he knew it, they were barreling backwards onto the couch. House took the brunt of it, with Wilson landing on top of him. He hissed as pain suddenly lit up his leg. “Fuck, get— off! You’re crushing me!”
“I’m trying!” House got an elbow to the ribs and a knee to his bad leg before Wilson had managed to resettle himself more comfortably on his lap.
Their faces were inches apart. Wilson smelt like alcohol and dairy, and his eyes, when House finally glared into them, had gone unfocused.
“Greggoryyyy,” Wilson sang with a dopey smile.
“That’s my name. Get up.”
“Have I ever told you how you’re so…” he paused, definitely struggling to process his thoughts. “Nice. So nice. You know that?”
“I’m not nice,” he huffed, trying to wriggle out from under his weight. “I’m currently load-bearing, physically and emotionally. So get off me.”
He instead leaned in, and House realised quickly what was about to happen before it could.
“Whoa, whoa, hey!” He abruptly stopped him with a hand flat against his chest. “That’s not happening.”
“What? Why not.”
“I don’t know. Maybe because you’re drunk out of your mind right now?”
“I’m not that drunk,” he defended, then puckered his lips and closed his eyes, leaning in again.
This time, House pressed his hand more firmly. “Yes, you are that drunk,” he tried to ignore the fresh throb radiating from his thigh. “No kissing. Wow, I can’t believe I have to say that.”
“Just a little one…”
“Even if you were stone sober, the answer’s still no. I’m not interested in being your rebound. You’d wake up tomorrow, remember this, and never talk to me again.”
Wilson considered this as hard as he could, then his face crumpled, and House just thought he might cry. Wilson’s hand cupped his cheek, almost desperately. Then his forehead dropped heavily against House’s shoulder. “I love you, House. I do.”
House let out a slightly panicked scoff, was this really happening? “Right, that’s just the alcohol talking.”
“For as long as I remember I’ve liked you. Since, uh, you bailed me out of jail,” Wilson then giggled. “I sound like a teenager, but I’ve kinda always had a crush on you.”
“…what?”
“Mhm,” Wilson picked his head back up, looking down at House. “It’s like every time I close my eyes I think of you. You’re my best friend.”
House suddenly found himself utterly speechless in Wilson’s sincerity. The alcohol was there, sure, slurring his words. But the look in his eyes was no joke. His hand was still resting on Wilson’s chest. Beneath his palm, his heart was hammering frantically.
“There’s no such thing as friends with benefits,” House said, raw. “You’re- don’t ruin this. Please.”
Wilson’s thumb swept along his cheekbone, ignoring him completely. Before House could stop him, he leaned down a final time and kissed him.
It was clumsy. Their noses bumped into each other and there was teeth, but he was warm. House took a fistful of Wilson’s shirt, pulling him closer against better judgement. He gasped against his lips, just for the kiss to deepen again.
Every logical part of House’s brain screamed at him to push Wilson away, to protect them both from the disaster that would be the morning after. Yet he stopped fighting, closed his eyes, and let himself melt into it.
Wilson eventually pulled back a few inches. He looked dazed, a sleepy smile tugging at his mouth. “I love you.”
His breath hitched. This all felt so wrong. It felt as if the other man was a disease, leaching off of him. As if he was dirty, and House had to wash his hands. How could he look so pleased with himself after what he’d just done to House?
“Tomorrow,” House muttered. “You’re going to pretend this never happened.”
His smile faded. “But it did happen.”
“I don’t care,” Wilson actually moved this time when he pushed at his shoulder, which was a relief to say the least. He stretched out his leg, rubbing at the aching thigh. “This was a mistake.”
“But—” his eyes were glazed, slightly frantic.
“Just,” he sighed. “Forget about this.”
“…I’ll take the couch,” Wilson mumbled.
“Fine, you do that,” he stood with the support of his cane. Wilson laid down onto the sofa, House pulled a blanket off the back of it and dropped it over him, who instinctively curled into it. “Sweet dreams.”
“Goodnight. Love you,”Wilson whispered in response.
House sighed, and went to bed without another word. He wasn’t able to get a wink of sleep that night.