Fic: Clear The Area
Title: Clear The Area
Author: arwen_kenobi
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit. Just for fun. Please don’t sue.
Spoilers: Allusions to “House vs. God”, “No Reason” and the Tritter Arc (notably “Que Sera Sera” and “Merry Little Christmas”)
Warnings: Mentions drug use
Characters/Parings: House/Wilson
Summary: He’d been so damn proud of himself. So damned worried about covering his tracks at home that it was only a matter of time before he lapsed at work.
Author’s Note: This is an expansion of drabble seven in my drabble set One Last Thing, which in turn was inspired by the song “Feel Good Hit of The Summer” by Queens of the Stone Age. You don’t have to have read that to understand this though.
House had found his Zoloft prescription today.
Wilson sighed for what seemed the millionth time today and buried his face in his hands again. He’d been so good at hiding it, so good at covering up the whole damned mess. His psychiatrist had been more than understanding of his desire to keep this as quiet as possible, even if she hadn’t really agreed with it, and had varied his appointment times as much as possible. The whole process had been easy to hide as long as he’d continued living at the hotel. No one would have ever imagined that all was not right in Wilson’s world. The only person he truly worried would catch on would be House, but House was House after all.
Then things between him and House had escalated. They’d been taking it slow since the Tritter fiasco but the direction of things had quickly moved to the point where House had all but demanded he move in with him. Hiding it had become a bit more difficult then. He was always careful to take his pill with his vitamins in the morning. He was meticulous in leaving no evidence of his prescriptions lying around and was always quick to assure House that his insomnia was stress induced. The slight weight loss was easy to explain away as well. Wilson also made a point of keeping his cell phone more or less attached to him; the last thing he needed was Dr. Summers calling him and House answering.
He’d been so damn proud of himself. So damned worried about covering his tracks at home that it was only a matter of time before he lapsed at work. This morning Wilson had had a session before work where he was given his new script. He’d stupidly brought the Zoloft refill in with him and had carelessly tossed it on his desk for all to see. Of course House would barge into his office at that very second. Wilson hadn’t even tried to snatch the bag back; House had already noted the name and was plunging into it. The pill bottle had been tossed at him and House had limped out of the room so quick that he was half convinced that the encounter had never happened.
House hadn’t appeared for lunch and he hadn’t shown up to pester him in his office for attention, sex, or a lift home. Wilson had driven himself back to 221B to find that House wasn’t there either. Wilson smirked slightly as he figured that his partner was probably over at Princeton General stalking Dr. Summers.
Wilson peeked through his fingers and regarded the prescription bottle on the coffee table. He reached for it, shook one out and swallowed it dry. It was highly likely that House would show up with his file and would know a few more things aside from how long he’d been on the antidepressants. He’d know how it had all started; everything from the smoking, to the bad ecstasy experiment, to the occasional trip into Vicodin land.
It had been an old bottle of House’s, Wilson reminded himself. The bottle he’d had on him the day he was shot. Wilson had no idea how he’d ended up with it in his possession or why he’d held onto it. An insurance policy of sorts? Some twisted way to understand his friend? He had no idea. He was sure Dr. Summers had her theories.
For a moment Wilson thought he should turn the television on. Scan through House’s TiVo or something. Just have something in the background beside his breathing and the occasional passing car. No point doing that though, turning on The New Yankee Workshop didn’t erase the fact that he’d lied to House.
The door suddenly flung open. Wilson didn’t turn around but could hear the rustle of paper. “I see you helped yourself to my file,” Wilson observed nonchalantly.
House said nothing until he began moving toward him.
“Nicotine.”
Wilson had a sudden urge for a cigarette but he’d finished that pack awhile ago and hadn’t allowed himself to buy a new one.
“Valium.”
Another something he could go for. He stopped that thought before it could go any further. He had enough drug worries.
“Vicodin.”
That word was almost spat out. Wilson tired his best not to think of the nearly year old Vicodin bottle stashed away in the lining of his duffle bag.
“Marijuana.”
House would probably be pissed he didn’t share that stash with him, Wilson mused.
“Ecstasy.”
Wilson shut his eyes. If spent the rest of his life never hearing that name again he’d die a happy man.
“Alcohol.”
That was what he had forgotten when he sat down, he realized. He’d left the whiskey on the kitchen counter but had forgotten to bring it to the couch with him. All for the best, he guessed. He had just taken his meds after all.
House was standing in front of the television now. “You tried each of these all over the past few months?”
The answer to that question was obvious so Wilson didn’t grace it with a response. It was all in the file. House knew that he’d had his first cigarette after the shooting. That he’d gotten piss drunk alone the night Tritter had come to him with the forged prescriptions. That on Christmas morning Wilson had headed back to his hotel room for a Vicodin trip after leaving House alone in his own drug induced stupor. These things House knew and Wilson knew he was only asking to see if he would defend himself. It was hard to defend a file containing notes taken during a session that the attendee had believed would be kept in confidence. Silly him.
“Where?”
Wilson offered a dismissive shrug at the new line of questioning. “Here, there and everywhere,” he replied mildly. “They’re surprisingly easy to get a hold of.”
”Where?” This time it was more of a demand than a question.
“The answer to should be obvious for at least four of those and the rest don’t matter.” Sure House was, perhaps, a little concerned but he was sure that he would have joined him for a smoke or two if he’d mentioned it. They would have joked around and either smoked on the roof of the hospital or gotten high somewhere else. House would have thought nothing of it. “There’s really only one you’re worried about,” Wilson added as both a conclusion to his own though process and an accusation to House.
House did have the decency to look a little guilty but he didn’t look away from him. Wilson looked down again as House scanned him for a few more moments before joining him on the couch, tossing the folder on the coffee table. “How many times?” he asked.
Wilson shut his eyes and took a deep breath. This, again, would be something House would already know. “Four,” he admitted after a moment, knowing that number was what was written in the file as well as knowing that it was the truth.
“From me?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
“Well, it’s either that or you prescribed pills for me that I never saw.”
“Or swiped an old bottle,” Wilson nearly snapped. Though the Tritter mess was well over Wilson still didn’t appreciate it when his prescribing practices were criticised. He would never have taken a bottle of Vicodin in House’s name, thought about it maybe but never done it. He’d just keep telling himself that and maybe one day he’d believe it.
His answer had visibly puzzled House and Wilson could almost hear the proverbial cogs turning as he tried to sort out where this bottle could have come from. They both knew that he would have noticed if a bottle of Vicodin, or even a few pills, had gone missing. As irresponsible as some people thought House handled his pills, he knew exactly how much Vicodin he took.
“After the Ketamine,” House whispered after a moment. “You never got rid of that bottle.”
Wilson inclined his head. “I was going to in the beginning,” he said in a futile attempt at defending his actions. “It kept slipping my mind and then the after that first day you were back using the cane I…” he trailed off. House wouldn’t need the details. It was all there.
House was silent for a long while. It was not something Wilson had expected. All his fantasies where House found out involved a screaming fit of some variety. The stunned silence was an interesting change and Wilson didn’t mind at first. Eventually, though, Wilson found himself breaking it.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have hid this from you.”
“You didn’t hide it,” House murmured back. “You can’t hide anything from me.”
Wilson decided not to point out the whole Grace business. “Then why didn’t you say anything?” he asked.
House said nothing but it was enough answer for Wilson.
“It’s not all your fault,” Wilson assured him as confidently as he could. He wouldn’t deny that a good part of this was House’s fault but he wasn’t going to let him shoulder all the blame. “It’s been a long time coming.”
House was still silent, his eyes rotating between focussing on the floor and the orange bottle with Wilson’s name on it. “I’m fine,” Wilson said as he took House’s hand. “Really.”
“Sure,” House scoffed. “You’re on Zoloft for hell of it.”
“I’d been sleeping too well lately,” Wilson agreed dryly.
House smiled slightly but it quickly flattened into a thin, hard line. “Do you have any of…anything still lying around?”
Wilson nodded.
“Anything here?”
Another nod.
“Get rid of it.”
Wilson nodded for a third time and rose to do so but House’s hand shot out to grasp his wrist and pull him back down. He took a few deep breaths and his mouth opened a few times but no words were coming out. Wilson reached out with his other hand to turn House’s face toward him. “I forgive you,” he said surely. To drive the point a bit closer to home Wilson leaned in and gently pressed his lips to House’s. “I’ll get through it,” Wilson promised after he pulled away.
House didn’t say anything as Wilson rose from his seat and continued his silence as he headed to the bedroom. He did look back in time to see House pick up the bottle, give it a look of pure hatred, and wrap his fingers around it in a death grip. Wilson was half-expecting the bottle to shatter and for the pills to fly all over the apartment.
“We’ll get through it,” Wilson amended quietly and reached for his duffle bag.
Author: arwen_kenobi
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit. Just for fun. Please don’t sue.
Spoilers: Allusions to “House vs. God”, “No Reason” and the Tritter Arc (notably “Que Sera Sera” and “Merry Little Christmas”)
Warnings: Mentions drug use
Characters/Parings: House/Wilson
Summary: He’d been so damn proud of himself. So damned worried about covering his tracks at home that it was only a matter of time before he lapsed at work.
Author’s Note: This is an expansion of drabble seven in my drabble set One Last Thing, which in turn was inspired by the song “Feel Good Hit of The Summer” by Queens of the Stone Age. You don’t have to have read that to understand this though.
House had found his Zoloft prescription today.
Wilson sighed for what seemed the millionth time today and buried his face in his hands again. He’d been so good at hiding it, so good at covering up the whole damned mess. His psychiatrist had been more than understanding of his desire to keep this as quiet as possible, even if she hadn’t really agreed with it, and had varied his appointment times as much as possible. The whole process had been easy to hide as long as he’d continued living at the hotel. No one would have ever imagined that all was not right in Wilson’s world. The only person he truly worried would catch on would be House, but House was House after all.
Then things between him and House had escalated. They’d been taking it slow since the Tritter fiasco but the direction of things had quickly moved to the point where House had all but demanded he move in with him. Hiding it had become a bit more difficult then. He was always careful to take his pill with his vitamins in the morning. He was meticulous in leaving no evidence of his prescriptions lying around and was always quick to assure House that his insomnia was stress induced. The slight weight loss was easy to explain away as well. Wilson also made a point of keeping his cell phone more or less attached to him; the last thing he needed was Dr. Summers calling him and House answering.
He’d been so damn proud of himself. So damned worried about covering his tracks at home that it was only a matter of time before he lapsed at work. This morning Wilson had had a session before work where he was given his new script. He’d stupidly brought the Zoloft refill in with him and had carelessly tossed it on his desk for all to see. Of course House would barge into his office at that very second. Wilson hadn’t even tried to snatch the bag back; House had already noted the name and was plunging into it. The pill bottle had been tossed at him and House had limped out of the room so quick that he was half convinced that the encounter had never happened.
House hadn’t appeared for lunch and he hadn’t shown up to pester him in his office for attention, sex, or a lift home. Wilson had driven himself back to 221B to find that House wasn’t there either. Wilson smirked slightly as he figured that his partner was probably over at Princeton General stalking Dr. Summers.
Wilson peeked through his fingers and regarded the prescription bottle on the coffee table. He reached for it, shook one out and swallowed it dry. It was highly likely that House would show up with his file and would know a few more things aside from how long he’d been on the antidepressants. He’d know how it had all started; everything from the smoking, to the bad ecstasy experiment, to the occasional trip into Vicodin land.
It had been an old bottle of House’s, Wilson reminded himself. The bottle he’d had on him the day he was shot. Wilson had no idea how he’d ended up with it in his possession or why he’d held onto it. An insurance policy of sorts? Some twisted way to understand his friend? He had no idea. He was sure Dr. Summers had her theories.
For a moment Wilson thought he should turn the television on. Scan through House’s TiVo or something. Just have something in the background beside his breathing and the occasional passing car. No point doing that though, turning on The New Yankee Workshop didn’t erase the fact that he’d lied to House.
The door suddenly flung open. Wilson didn’t turn around but could hear the rustle of paper. “I see you helped yourself to my file,” Wilson observed nonchalantly.
House said nothing until he began moving toward him.
“Nicotine.”
Wilson had a sudden urge for a cigarette but he’d finished that pack awhile ago and hadn’t allowed himself to buy a new one.
“Valium.”
Another something he could go for. He stopped that thought before it could go any further. He had enough drug worries.
“Vicodin.”
That word was almost spat out. Wilson tired his best not to think of the nearly year old Vicodin bottle stashed away in the lining of his duffle bag.
“Marijuana.”
House would probably be pissed he didn’t share that stash with him, Wilson mused.
“Ecstasy.”
Wilson shut his eyes. If spent the rest of his life never hearing that name again he’d die a happy man.
“Alcohol.”
That was what he had forgotten when he sat down, he realized. He’d left the whiskey on the kitchen counter but had forgotten to bring it to the couch with him. All for the best, he guessed. He had just taken his meds after all.
House was standing in front of the television now. “You tried each of these all over the past few months?”
The answer to that question was obvious so Wilson didn’t grace it with a response. It was all in the file. House knew that he’d had his first cigarette after the shooting. That he’d gotten piss drunk alone the night Tritter had come to him with the forged prescriptions. That on Christmas morning Wilson had headed back to his hotel room for a Vicodin trip after leaving House alone in his own drug induced stupor. These things House knew and Wilson knew he was only asking to see if he would defend himself. It was hard to defend a file containing notes taken during a session that the attendee had believed would be kept in confidence. Silly him.
“Where?”
Wilson offered a dismissive shrug at the new line of questioning. “Here, there and everywhere,” he replied mildly. “They’re surprisingly easy to get a hold of.”
”Where?” This time it was more of a demand than a question.
“The answer to should be obvious for at least four of those and the rest don’t matter.” Sure House was, perhaps, a little concerned but he was sure that he would have joined him for a smoke or two if he’d mentioned it. They would have joked around and either smoked on the roof of the hospital or gotten high somewhere else. House would have thought nothing of it. “There’s really only one you’re worried about,” Wilson added as both a conclusion to his own though process and an accusation to House.
House did have the decency to look a little guilty but he didn’t look away from him. Wilson looked down again as House scanned him for a few more moments before joining him on the couch, tossing the folder on the coffee table. “How many times?” he asked.
Wilson shut his eyes and took a deep breath. This, again, would be something House would already know. “Four,” he admitted after a moment, knowing that number was what was written in the file as well as knowing that it was the truth.
“From me?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
“Well, it’s either that or you prescribed pills for me that I never saw.”
“Or swiped an old bottle,” Wilson nearly snapped. Though the Tritter mess was well over Wilson still didn’t appreciate it when his prescribing practices were criticised. He would never have taken a bottle of Vicodin in House’s name, thought about it maybe but never done it. He’d just keep telling himself that and maybe one day he’d believe it.
His answer had visibly puzzled House and Wilson could almost hear the proverbial cogs turning as he tried to sort out where this bottle could have come from. They both knew that he would have noticed if a bottle of Vicodin, or even a few pills, had gone missing. As irresponsible as some people thought House handled his pills, he knew exactly how much Vicodin he took.
“After the Ketamine,” House whispered after a moment. “You never got rid of that bottle.”
Wilson inclined his head. “I was going to in the beginning,” he said in a futile attempt at defending his actions. “It kept slipping my mind and then the after that first day you were back using the cane I…” he trailed off. House wouldn’t need the details. It was all there.
House was silent for a long while. It was not something Wilson had expected. All his fantasies where House found out involved a screaming fit of some variety. The stunned silence was an interesting change and Wilson didn’t mind at first. Eventually, though, Wilson found himself breaking it.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have hid this from you.”
“You didn’t hide it,” House murmured back. “You can’t hide anything from me.”
Wilson decided not to point out the whole Grace business. “Then why didn’t you say anything?” he asked.
House said nothing but it was enough answer for Wilson.
“It’s not all your fault,” Wilson assured him as confidently as he could. He wouldn’t deny that a good part of this was House’s fault but he wasn’t going to let him shoulder all the blame. “It’s been a long time coming.”
House was still silent, his eyes rotating between focussing on the floor and the orange bottle with Wilson’s name on it. “I’m fine,” Wilson said as he took House’s hand. “Really.”
“Sure,” House scoffed. “You’re on Zoloft for hell of it.”
“I’d been sleeping too well lately,” Wilson agreed dryly.
House smiled slightly but it quickly flattened into a thin, hard line. “Do you have any of…anything still lying around?”
Wilson nodded.
“Anything here?”
Another nod.
“Get rid of it.”
Wilson nodded for a third time and rose to do so but House’s hand shot out to grasp his wrist and pull him back down. He took a few deep breaths and his mouth opened a few times but no words were coming out. Wilson reached out with his other hand to turn House’s face toward him. “I forgive you,” he said surely. To drive the point a bit closer to home Wilson leaned in and gently pressed his lips to House’s. “I’ll get through it,” Wilson promised after he pulled away.
House didn’t say anything as Wilson rose from his seat and continued his silence as he headed to the bedroom. He did look back in time to see House pick up the bottle, give it a look of pure hatred, and wrap his fingers around it in a death grip. Wilson was half-expecting the bottle to shatter and for the pills to fly all over the apartment.
“We’ll get through it,” Wilson amended quietly and reached for his duffle bag.