DVD Commentary: "Untouchable"
"Untouchable" and the untitled House sestina tied in the poll, so I'll be doing both. Here's the first-longer, but easier.
The complete story without commentary is posted here; you'll probably want to read that first.
I'm excited to do commentary for this fic because there really is a story to how it all came together. I had a fantastic dream in June 2006 about House and Wilson almostalmost getting together only for House to turn away, and I wanted to turn it into a fic that would translate the excitement followed by gut-wrenching disappointment to readers. It sat and sat in the back of my mind, waiting for the right framework. Then "Son of Coma Guy" came along. I still cannot express how much I love that episode. A few days after it aired, I realized that it had provided a perfect setup for the dream-story: Wilson could ask House Gabe's question about loving someone (him) and make a tentative move, and House, open and vulnerable after the night's events, could let it happen for just a few moments before backing off, closing himself off.
I wrote the first incomplete draft the night before "Whac-a-Mole" aired, before any new canon could alter the story in my mind or disrupt the mood "Son of Coma Guy" had instilled in me. Because of the dream, I wrote it in present tense instead of past; it emphasizes the immediacy of the actions and emotions. The beginning of that draft got completely stripped down when I wrote and edited the final version a couple of months later, but the tense stayed the same, and the essential parts were sketched out and the melancholic tone was established in that initial sitting.
I'd figured the story would be an AU tag to "Son of Coma Guy," but it ended up fitting into the space between the episodes really well with just a couple of tweaks. I liked pretending that Wilson's anger in "Whac-a-Mole" could be blamed on House's rejection of him as much as everything else that was going on.
So that is the genesis story of this fic. And now, on to the commentary:
Title: Untouchable
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: R
I'd thought about warning for UST, by which I mean advertising the UST, because it's a draw for me in other people's fic headers, but I worried that it would spoil the suspense of the embrace/kissing scene if people knew House and Wilson wouldn't be getting together, and my betas agreed that it was best to leave it out. Betas are smart.
Word Count: 3,200
Summary: After Atlantic City, Wilson seeks comfort at House's apartment and asks a question of his own.
Summaries can be really hard; they have to encapsulate the story's plot and emotion without giving everything away (or spoiling people for the episode). It took a while, but I think this is one of the better fic summaries I've come up with.
Spoilers: Takes place immediately following "Son of Coma Guy," with spoilers for Season 3 up to that episode.
A/N: Thank you to my wonderful, wonderful f-list, especially topaz_eyes and usomitai, for input on the first draft way back in November as well as betaing on the completed story. Concrit still welcome.
I mean it about the concrit. Even if the time has passed when I'll edit the story in question, I'd love to get advice on what people think doesn't work so that I can keep it in mind in the future.
Wilson follows House back to his apartment from the hospital with the promise of food to settle his rumbling stomach and companionship to calm his thoughts. God, it feels like he's spent the whole day in his car. He parks across the street and almost groans with relief when he gets out and stretches his back.
The first draft of this story started very differently. It opened while Wilson and House were still in Atlantic City and Gabe was being carted out; then it followed Wilson back to Princeton in his car as he brooded about the Tritter situation and his own growing despair; then it filled in another gap in the episode by explaining that they didn't get lectured by Cuddy, and finally it trailed Wilson and House from the hospital to House's apartment.
It looked like this, actually:
House coerces the EMTs into letting him ride in the Medevac 'copter with Gabriel's body. Even though he had Gabe take a dozen aspirin as a precaution, he needs to ensure that the heart remains viable in transit. Otherwise everything that happened today-the miraculous awakening, the soul-baring revelations, a father's self-sacrifice so his dying son might live-will have been for naught.
So Wilson drives back to Princeton with only a handful of candy wrappers and echoes of rapid-fire conversation for company.
[Wilson's reflections... What he learned about House… A man he didn't know yesterday is dead and a teenager he doesn't know now will probably live... He'd never seen House perform euthanasia, and as he'd heard Cuddy tell House over the phone, this was different: it was assisted suicide for someone who wasn't already dying.]
Halfway home, his stomach starts grumbling. He fishes around in the wreckage on the passenger seat without looking away from the road. His searching fingers find only crinkling plastic and sticky foil: All empty. He winces at a second, louder gurgle. Should've wrapped up that hoagie.
[Stops at a gas station for something.] The credit card processor won't work, so he pays in cash. He makes a mental note to stop at the first-floor ATM again to replenish what he dished out today.
Despite the stop, he makes it back to the hospital in an hour and a half. He parks by the main entrance, figuring he'll meet House in one of their offices. They'll be throwing House out of the surgical suite any minute now, if he hasn't been banished already. Then Cuddy will probably want them both in her office for an interrogation that will put Tritter to shame and which House will handle just as flippantly.
Crap. Tritter. Wilson sags in his seat. With all the crazy events of the day, he almost managed to forget about the investigation that's threatening to swell and engulf him along with the man who got him into this mess. This morning he was upset about lying about the forged signatures. After tonight, he can add the somewhat more concerning "accessory to murder" to his list of offenses.
He grips the steering wheel, closes his eyes and takes five deep, measured breaths. Panic later. House now. Then interrogation. Then dinner. Then bed. He switches off the ignition, grabs his satchel, gets out of the car and heads inside.
* * *
No trip to the principal's office, as it turns out, for which he is grateful. No lecture on playing hooky, either. He suspects he'll be getting a call first thing in the morning, after he's had some time to recover.
But Cuddy stands fairly low on Wilson's list of things to be worried about at the moment. His accounts have been frozen. He can't access his own money. And House's fellows were questioned this afternoon. Tritter's creeping closer. As their conversation by the ATM just proved, House is still brushing off the whole affair, but Wilson can see the hairline fractures forming in his façade. A week ago he would have been happy to know that someone found a way to take House down a peg. Now that he's becoming entangled in House's web of lies and recklessness, however, the last thing he wants to see is this hesitation, this hint of fear in his friend's eyes. Tonight, House looks as tired as Wilson feels. That doesn't bode well for either of them.
Wilson walks away from the cash machine without waiting; he knows House will follow, and with his own defeated gait he also knows it won't be difficult for House to catch up. Sure enough, House is half a step ahead of him by the time they round the next corner.
When they pause at the front doors where they're supposed to part ways for their respective vehicles, House gives him a look that lets Wilson know he's too exhausted to want to ride his bike home. Wilson's not feeling fully conscious himself, but he nods and leads the way back to his car. As if they haven't spent enough time in it today.
They don't talk the whole way back to House's apartment.
* * *
House's idea of getting dinner is to slap a twenty into Wilson's hand and tell him to call in for whatever he wants. Then he disappears down the hall to take a shower.
[...]
All of that to establish the mood and set the scene in House's apartment for the important part: the question and the close encounter.
In the comments to that draft, usomitai very correctly pointed out that the story was getting bogged down in too much thought, at risk of collapsing under so much unfocused internal monologue. Most of the time that passed between the first draft and the finished story was spent mulling over whether and how much to cut. In the end, as you can tell, it all went. I liked a few parts of it and was sorry to see them go, like the hint about his account being frozen when his credit card doesn't work, the symbolism of the destroyed candy wrappers littering his car and House being half a step ahead of him after the ATM, and the joke about that ridiculous hoagie. But they had to go, and the story is stronger for it. Plus, a few of the most important/effective sentences did get folded in to the final story. You probably recognize them: the "accessory to murder" line is one, as is Wilson pushing back his panic until after dinner and the bit about "as if they haven't spent enough time" in Wilson's car that day.
So that got cut, and the second draft then started with that last excerpted paragraph. It needed more of an introduction, though, and that's how the first paragraph of the final story was born.
Then we pick up where the draft continued, with a couple of minor adjustments for clarity:
When he steps into the apartment, he learns that House's idea of getting dinner is to slap a twenty into his hand and tell him to call in for whatever he wants. Then House limps off down the hall to take a shower.
Wilson stares at the wrinkled bill, thinking that this wasn't quite the situation he had in mind all those times he wished House would pay for food for a change. His accounts are frozen. His stomach plummets, just as it did when the customer service rep delivered the news to him over the phone. He has no idea how he's going to handle this, how long he'll be able to stretch out the $100 he's got in his wallet, how he's going to pay for food, and gas, and his room, how much he's willing to risk charging to his credit cards, and what will happen if he goes broke before House settles this thing with the cops.
Wilson's reaction to the frozen bank account got pretty well glossed over with everything that was happening to House and with Wilson struggling with his towed car, suspended DEA license and decision to close down his practice. Here, I wondered what might have been going through his head right after he found out Tritter had cut him off. Wilson has always been House's moneylender (which, gah, bad historical implications for Jews, but that's not the point), always has money on him, seems to be well off; what would he do if he suddenly couldn't access anything, lost his safety net?
He gets ahold of himself when he hears the showerhead sputter to life and the first pulses of water drum against the tub. Panic later. Dinner now.
I like "sputter" and "drum." Nice, evocative verbs. (Er, if I do say so myself.)
He doesn't feel like Chinese, or Italian, or Thai, or Indian. He wants something simple, plain and preferably warm. Soup, maybe. He leaves the money on the table by the door and walks into the kitchen to see if House has anything edible lying around that he can assemble into some kind of meal.
Wilson seeking comfort. He doesn't want a dirty bill, he wants House's company (even if he's smart enough not to expect House's sympathy or help). He doesn't want fancy food, but something warm and home-cooked. (And in my fanon-land, his hotel room doesn't have a kitchen.) He grumbles, but he's glad to be able to putter around in House's kitchen and feed the both of them.
He finds white bread and cheddar cheese among the usual staples and take-out containers in the fridge. The crisper smells suspicious. He squints; something else seems off. He can't put his finger on what, though,
And there's the start of the intertwined theme of Tritter messing up House's life as well as Wilson's. Wilson is intimately familiar with House's kitchen, between having been friends for so long and having lived there. The little shifts throw him off even before he realizes what they are and why they're there.
so he slides out the drawer, holds it at arm's length and carries it over to the cabinet under the sink where House keeps his garbage bin. When he opens the left door, the bin isn't there. He stands bewildered for a moment, then tries the right door and finds it on that side. He dumps the rotting vegetables and puts the crisper back.
House so has rotting veggies in his crisper. One of Wilson's chores when they cohabitated was probably to keep the fridge clean along with the dishes.
Grilled cheese, then, and soup to go with it. House always has some cans in the cupboard. He ducks down to the cabinet beside the oven to get a frying pan and one of the small pots. It's a mess in there; it takes him a minute to find what he needs. He absently wonders at the disarray as he starts a pat of butter heating in the pan on the stove and goes in search of soup.
Writers: When a beta makes a suggestion and you take it, do you hear their voice in your head every time you read the word(s) that changed? nightdog_barks suggested "pat" for "piece" here, which I think was a good substitution, more domestic and thick/fatty/comfort-sounding, but "pat" isn't something I say normally, so it's like she's there with a nudge each time I read that sentence.
Packets of yeast and sugar tumble out when he opens the upper cabinet where the cans are. Peering up, he sees that half the contents have been knocked over, and a few of them belong in a different cabinet. He frowns. House's kitchen may never be well-stocked, but it's always relatively neat and organized. As he locates a stash of Campbell's condensed tomato soup behind an errant box of pasta, he realizes that that's what was bothering him about the fridge-some of the items were in the wrong places. And the garbage can....
Then he realizes why.
Tritter.
Annnnd the lightbulb pings on.
Tritter must have searched the kitchen along with the rest of the apartment, combing through the fridge, drawers and cabinets and shoving everything back haphazardly when he found the pill bottles House had squirrelled away in the spice rack or a saucepan or cereal boxes or wherever he'd been hiding them.
Seriously, where did House stash that many pills?
I'm happy with the alliteration there: squirrelled, spice, sauce, cereal.
Or House shoved everything back when he came home that day, and he's been fixing things only as he uses them.
Wilson steps out into the living room. Now that he's looking for it, he sees it everywhere: books out of order on the shelves, some upside-down; knickknacks and photographs rearranged on the mantel; papers and journals piled in drifts on the floor against the edges of furniture; stuff kicked under the coffee table.
A lot of people who commented to the fic praised its attention to detail. I thought that was funny-I mean, it's great to hear, I'm glad it works, but it's also funny, because really I find it much harder to write any other way. This is my natural writing pace, a sort of "real time," and I'm a very visual writer on top of it; I see the scene in front of me, and that's what I describe.
He closes his eyes. It's only a matter of time before the cops start sniffing around his own office. His hotel room. The hotel room that will only be his for as long as his last payment holds out. Before Tritter questions him again. And to think that this morning he was upset about lying about the forged signatures. As of tonight, he can add "accessory to murder" to his list of offenses.
Much better than trying to stick all that stuff into a huge, rambling internal monologue in that original draft.
The butter starts to sizzle, drawing him back into the kitchen. He concentrates on preparing the meal, taking slow, deep breaths, calmed by the rich scent of hot butter and cheese.
Because I'm a visual writer, a lot of times I neglect to describe the other senses. Here, because everything is so solemn, slow and deliberate, I tried to add more sensory details: how it smells, what it sounds like.
This is a time for comfort food if ever there was one. He'll have a salad for lunch tomorrow to compensate.
Oh, Wilson and his salad-scarfing.
If he can still afford a salad. Fuck.
Theory: Tritter plus frozen bank accounts leads to stress and less money leads to eating poorly leads to season three weight gain.
He forces the thought away. Stir the soup. Flip the sandwich. Get dishes and silverware.
He's just switching off the stove and pouring the soup into the two bowls he set out next to the pile of crisped sandwiches when House's voice startles him.
"So even when I get dinner, you get dinner."
Wilson glances over. House is leaning in the doorway in sweatpants and a tee shirt, barefoot and tapping his cane against the jamb. He looks as exhausted as Wilson feels.
Bare feet = vulnerability. House needs to be vulnerable for the rest of the story to work. That's why "Son of Coma Guy" works so well as a setup; he's got to be feeling fragile and exhausted (and therefore extra-special snippy) after the day's questions laid him open in front of a stranger and his best friend.
"Nobody's going to deliver at this time of night," he replies, sliding spoons into the bowls.
"Didn't stop you in Atlantic City." House steps closer and peers at the food. "You just can't bring yourself to spend my money. Or did you pocket the twenty so you can eat tomorrow?"
Pursing his lips, Wilson picks up the plate and one of the bowls and walks past him. "Eat before it gets cold."
Grilled cheese and soup are staple comfort foods, and "Eat before it gets cold" is kind of a natural thing to say when you're hungry and kind of pissed off/exhausted, but I may have unconsciously stolen this from topaz_eyes's fic Relevance, which I didn't realize until months later when I re-read her story and started when I saw the same line. Eep.
They could eat around the island in the kitchen, but he needs to sit, and if he's that tired he can only imagine what state House is in.
Oh, Wilson. Even in your darkest hour, you're considerate of House.
He sinks into his usual spot on the couch, lays the food out on the table in front of him and takes a bite of one of the sandwiches. The crust is burned on one edge more than he likes, but aside from that it's delicious-firm and buttery on the outside, soft and warm on the inside.
Like House, see? Caustic and damaged, but Wilson loves his tough skin and squishy center.
House comes in, finally, holding his cane in one hand and two open beer bottles in the other. Frowning, Wilson asks, "Where's your soup?"
"Had to sell my third arm to pay the hitman who's taking care of Tritter," is the reply as House sits beside him and sets the beer on the table. "Luckily I got to keep my third leg. And I don't mean the cane." He gives a half-hearted leer.
Half-hearted = tired, and also comfortable with Wilson; he doesn't need to put on a face for anyone.
When Wilson only takes another bite and regards him evenly, House glances away and takes a huge bite of his own sandwich; it's a small miracle that Wilson understands his muffled, "Don't like tomato soup."
I love that Wilson can draw honesty out of House from beneath the protective layer of sarcasm.
"Then... why do you have three cans of it?"
House shoots him a look usually reserved for his fellows when they're being particularly obtuse.
Did that come across? It's because Wilson likes tomato soup. House bought them for him at some point.
He reaches for his beer. "Haven't we had enough interrogation for one day?"
No, Wilson thinks. We barely got started. There's one question in particular he would have liked to pursue further; maybe he can steer House back around to it tonight.
One of the things that tripped me up in this conversation was figuring out how to lead into the Big Question-how to indicate that Wilson was building up to it, considering the best way to bring it up. It was tricky, trying to work those bits in without hiding too much of Wilson's thoughts/plans from readers since he's the POV character (creating artificial and potentially annoying suspense; there were some meta posts about that floating around back then). Some of them went in at the last minute, and I don't think they all work well. I've underlined the transitions so they stand out to you like they still stand out to me when I reread the story.
But House has revealed more about himself in the last few hours than he has in years, so Wilson keeps quiet for the moment and reaches for the other beer. He taps the bottom of the bottle against House's before they drink. "To Gabriel."
House grunts a soft approval and takes a long drink.
Neither of them turns on the television; it seems disrespectful, somehow.
I definitely wanted them to acknowledge Gabriel's death, as a tribute to the man who wrung truth out of House and set all of this in motion and whose death really did affect them both. I thought the quiet toast and silent agreement to keep the TV off was a good way to do it, and also to preserve the heavy silence of their long day and leave things open for a new conversation. Wilson couldn't ask his serious question and expect an honest answer if one of House's stupid shows were on in the background.
The rest of the meal is accompanied only by quiet crunching, slurping, the swipe of napkins on lips and the soft squeak of leather as they shift into more comfortable positions.
They don't talk until dinner has been reduced to a plate of crumbs, a scraped-clean bowl and two empty bottles. The belch that signals House's satisfaction transforms into a yawn. "You may as well stay over," he says when he's finished. "It'll be late when you're good to drive."
"I've had one beer," Wilson reminds him, "and it's already late." But he knows he'll be taking him up on the offer. He needs a home tonight instead of a hotel.
One of the things I hated about the Tritter arc was how little support Wilson got. House, Cuddy, Cameron, Tritter, all on his back. And on top of it all, he didn't even have a home to go to in the evenings, just that sad, impersonal room.
"You want to go, then?"
"No."
Quiet again. To keep from staring at the disorder and facing what it may mean for both of them, hoping he can broach the topic he wants to, he asks, "You want to talk about what happened today?"
House turns to face him. "There's nothing left to say."
Wilson gives a breathy laugh. "Nothing left? You dodged half that guy's questions, not to mention every one I asked you."
Well, it's true! A lot was said, but more was left unanswered. Of course House would try to pass off his reluctant confessions as enough for one day and Wilson would still want more.
There's a flash of something like hurt in House's eyes, but before Wilson can identify it, it's replaced with a more familiar, weary anger. "Talking about what inspired me to practice medicine in front of you filled my month's quota for heart-to-hearts."
House-speak for "leave me alone."
It's a perfect opening. "Yeah, about that story, with the-what was it? Bark-something?"
"Buraku," House mutters.
"Buraku," he repeats to buy some time. He has to phrase things carefully to lead the conversation where he wants it to go. "It's an awfully convenient metaphor."
"What would have been awfully convenient was me kicking you out of the room sooner."
Refusing to take the bait, he continues: "I don't know if what you described back there was true, but I know you want it to be. This is how you were with that autistic kid. You see yourself in these-these noble misfits, brilliant and misunderstood and shunned by society. You envy them. But you're different from them, House. You're not untouchable. You just wish you were."
A little meta, but I think it works all right because Wilson tends to say things like this on the show. That buraku metaphor really was a little too perfect, and I like thinking that House crafted it over the years to fit how he'd like to see himself rather than that it really happened that way. It touches on the theme of the subjectivity of truth that appeared in a line Doris Egan said she cut from the episode ("I can't tell you if it happened. I can tell you that it's true.").
Throughout this speech, House has been making various uncomfortable and annoyed faces at him and other objects in the room. Now he shifts his gaze from the ceiling to Wilson. "Are you done?"
Almost there. "I want to know something. One of the questions today you never answered."
"No. That game's over."
It's flat, abrupt, dismissive. Wilson blinks. "You'll spill your deepest, darkest secrets to a stranger who's been a vegetable for ten years, but you won't answer one simple question for me?"
It's easier for House to tell secrets to strangers; they don't matter.
"Yeah. Because in another few hours, he was going to be permanently unconscious and therefore unable to lecture me."
"And now he's dead," Wilson says, "and I made sure you don't get arrested for it. That's got to be worth something in this conversation. Just... answer this for me."
One of my weaknesses is making Wilson too passive and angst-ridden. I like how here he tosses the argument right back at House and gets what he wants.
House's eyes betray his acquiescence before he speaks. "Look, I only stole the damn pad because you were too hard-headed to-"
"Not about the pad. Not about the drugs.
Looking back, I'm sorry to have had Wilson cut House off like this. I was concentrating on getting Wilson to ask the question he needed to ask for this story, but he does still want to know why House stole his prescription pad, and I think he would have let House explain himself before going on to ask the other question.
Not about any of that. I want to know something else." House waits, poker face in place, while Wilson takes a breath. "Have you ever loved anyone after Stacy?"
And we finally get to Wilson's point and the hinge of the story. While I'm not convinced from watching the episode that Wilson would harp on this question-he seemed to take it well enough when the conversation shifted in the car that afternoon-, I definitely wanted to know, and I think a lot of other people wanted to know, and I didn't think it was too much of a stretch to bring it up again like this.
"That's what you want to know?"
"Yes."
House looks away. "If you don't know the answer to that, you're more of an idiot than I thought."
Classic House evasions, defenses against talking about what matters to him: breaking eye contact, a familiar insult, not answering the question.
"You can't get away with not answering this time. Tell me. Have you ever loved anyone else?"
"I love my mom."
"Don't be glib."
I do think House's mom is one of the few people he loves, whatever faults he sees in her, whatever she may have let happen while he was growing up (and you know he was thinking about his father, after everything he and Gabe and Wilson talked about that day, after what he said to the son after the surgery, even if "One Day, One Room" hadn't aired yet). I like this exchange; it was one of the first that popped to mind when I started drafting, and I'm glad it stayed in.
There's a pause. He can't read the thoughts behind the tiny fluctuations in House's expression. "I'm too tired for this," House says at last. "I'm going to bed." He stands and picks up his cane, keeping his face averted.
Wilson rises and takes hold of House's elbow. House shakes his head to the side, once, without tugging his arm free, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet, rough, with an edge to it that sounds like a plea. "Don't push this."
House, at the breaking point.
He needs to push this, though, or he'll have to wait months or years more for another chance at an answer. "Look at me," he presses, softening his voice.
It's a long shot, but after a moment, he does, startling Wilson with the vulnerability in those expressive blue eyes. They hold each other's gazes in a silent conversation.
Eugh. Terrible line. There have got to be better ways to describe the complex nonverbal exchanges those two have so often.
When House looks down again, all the fight seems to have gone out of him.
"House," Wilson tries for the last time, gently, even as his heart beats faster. "Have you-Do you...?"
And here, we transition into the embrace/kiss/rejection from that dream-into the "oh, oh, oh, are they going to-?" mode (I hoped, as I was writing).
House lets out a slow breath. Very carefully, Wilson strokes his hand up and down his bare arm. When that doesn't meet with a protest, he takes a cautious step closer. House closes his eyes.
The hell with it, Wilson thinks, and with another half-step forward, he slides his arms around House until their chests touch. Before he can think better of it, he presses his face into the crook of House's neck: skin and warmth and soap and slept-in cotton.
Fanfic pet peeve: when people smell like Item A, Item B, and "something uniquely [their name]." Agh. I mean, it's a common construction because it's often true (TMI: I could say my ex smelled like Lever 2000 soap and his father's cigarette smoke and something uniquely him), but when you've read it a hundred times, it wears. So here's four things, only one a real scent, none uniquely House.
House's stubble rasps against his ear. He can't feel the scar from the bullet wound.
House stands still and stiff in his embrace, and now Wilson can feel the tremors rippling through his arms, back and neck. Come on, House, he urges in his head. Let go. Let me in. Admit that I'm already in.
He lets out a ragged breath when House relaxes and brings his left hand up to rest in the middle of Wilson's back. Within a few moments they're rocking slightly, slowly, left to right and back again. He doesn't know which of them initiated the gentle sway-he's certain that, like children playing with a Ouija board, they'll both deny being the source of the movement-and he doesn't care, so long as it keeps going.
The sway came from the dream; I don't know that I'd have written it otherwise, and I almost took it out, but I liked the implication of rocking someone gently for comfort, and then the Ouija board comparison came to me and that sealed the deal, because of course neither Wilson nor House would ever admit to wanting to hug like that.
He starts stroking his thumb along House's shoulder blade. At first it provokes no response, but then House rubs his cheek once against Wilson's jaw, lifting and settling back in nearly the same position; a nuzzle disguised as readjustment.
House's defenses are really something to behold. Even when they're together like this, he still won't admit to wanting or giving affection; he's been burned before, and he's not going to let someone else in that easily. Even someone who knows him as well as Wilson.
Wilson draws back without letting go, and House raises his head in return. It's almost a physical jolt when their eyes meet again. He can feel his own breath as it brushes against House's nose and mouth and curls back towards him. Swallowing once for courage, he leans into the remaining space between them.
A symbolic and physical space; and it's that first that hurts more when House pulls away.
Their lips barely touch; just enough of a dry, feathery brush to trigger that surface nerve that needs to be pressed before it will stop tingling.
It's not just me who gets that sometimes, right? Right?
Before he can come in for a second, firmer pass, there's a thump-the tip of House's cane on the hardwood floor-and House pulls away. He swears once, softly. Then he's gone-out of Wilson's embrace, out of the room.
Too much. Too much for one day. That was the limit, and House shut down.
Silence. Wilson stands alone in the middle of the living room looking at the space where House used to be, his arms limp at his sides. His face and body gradually cool where House was touching him. He tilts his head up at the ceiling and squeezes his eyes shut, then grinds his hand into his lower lip, silencing the twinging nerve.
If only he could as easily grind out the pain of House walking away.
He knows House does not want to be followed. He also knows that what he witnessed was House closing himself off, making himself once more untouchable in all the ways that matter.
The best thing that ever happened to this story was realizing that House's too-perfect tale of the buraku offered the perfect theme (and ultimately the title) for what needed to happen: untouchability. Not that House is untouchable, but that he wants it, tries every day to achieve it, as Wilson said before.
After inhaling and releasing a deep breath, he walks slowly down the hall, following the light to House's bedroom door. House stands at the foot of his bed staring at the mattress, leaning on his cane with both arms.
Agh, poor stubborn yearning damaged tired men.
Wilson puts a hand on the doorjamb. His chest feels tight. "House," he begins, not knowing what he wants to say.
It doesn't matter anyway; without turning around, House says, "Blanket and pillow are in the closet."
Wilson swallows. He doesn't trust his voice. He does know that if House would only look at him, he'd be able to read everything in Wilson's eyes, and then it would be all right.
More images/altered lines from the dream. My heart was just about breaking at that point, and I really wanted to convey that yearning and disappointment-wanted people to go, "Nooooo!" along with me. Because I'm a sadist. Heh. No, but because UST can be a beautiful thing, and sadly, I think it's one of the most realistic outcomes for the two of them. (The other being "and they lived dysfunctionally ever after," "ever after" meaning "until the inevitable huge argument resulting in a nasty breakup.")
But House straightens, turns, and limps past him into the bathroom without meeting his gaze. He turns on the tap and uncaps his toothpaste.
Wilson follows his progress with increasing misery. "House, I-"
"Good night," House says around his foamy toothbrush. He won't even look at Wilson in the mirror.
Again and again: No eye contact says so much. House doesn't trust himself to look at Wilson right now, or he may very well break. It's a part of the character interpretation that says his prickliness comes from great sensitivity. (Without going all emo about it.)
Wilson stands there for another few moments, then gives up. He goes back into the living room, where the subtler mess from Tritter's guys is now supplemented with dinner detritus on the coffee table and crumpled napkins on the floor. He'll have to clean up before concentrating on making the couch into a passable bed so he can toss and turn in his clothes all night while House sleeps in his soft queen-sized bed down the hall, like a rerun of last spring. As if they weren't just kissing inches away from that couch. As if House didn't just shut down before his eyes. There's a streak of grease from one of their buttery hands on the armrest where his feet will go.
Jesus. Jesus, he can't stay here.
An awesome thing that happened after "Untouchable" was posted was that there was a brief discussion over at housefic_pens about "showing" vs. "telling" that used this paragraph as an example. I hope deelaundry doesn't mind me reposting her comment, because I think it's a really cool explication of what's going on here as well as a great demonstration of clunky "telling":
Wilson walks away from House, back into the living room. He feels terrible, that everything is now a mess, not only in House's apartment, but between him and House. House doesn't seem to care; he'll make Wilson sleep on the couch just like last spring. He knows House is never going to deal with the kiss, how he feels, or how screwed up their relationship is. Wilson can't take it any more.
How cool is that? *g* And it's true: This is Wilson's breaking point.
His coat is by the door on top of House's where he left it; he slings it on, and his fumbling hands suddenly can't button it fast enough. He only manages to get one glove on before he's out the door, holding the other in his teeth as he locks up. It's not until he's sitting in the driver's seat of his car in a mist of his own quick breaths that he remembers the money on the front table. He'll have to make do with staff lounge supplies tomorrow, which probably means bread and butter.
Added that in after the PBJs of "Whac-a-Mole."
Unless House gets his head out of his ass and treats him to a meal.
Yeah, right.
"Fuck," he grits out, clenching his fists. Then, with a surge of emotions he doesn't want to begin to identify, he slams the heel of his hand into the top of the steering wheel. "Fuck!"
Aaaand there's the R rating.
Again-trying to make Wilson angry instead of sad; a more traditionally (stereotypically) masculine reaction to something upsetting, but also to set up his behavior in "Whac-a-Mole," where he's already pissed off before even more misfortune gets heaped on him.
That makes him feel a little better; enough to start the engine, take a deep breath, let it out, and pull away from the curb.
He parks at the hotel without remembering how he drove there and rides up to his floor with a mind as blank as Gabe's eyes when the EMTs wheeled him out.
Eh. A little overboard there.
When he keys open the door to his room, he notices that he's shaking a little. He tells himself it's from the cold.
He always was good at lying to himself.
The only light comes from the table lamp he likes to leave on when he goes out, and he lets his eyes adjust to the dimness as he changes for bed. He doesn't think about House settling into his own bed in his apartment, or the dozen different ways he could have handled things tonight, or the feel of House against his cheek and in his arms, or how close they came to-
Broken off to indicate that Wilson doesn't want to finish the thought because it's too painful, and it also neatly allows for slashy or non-slashy interpretation of what Wilson wanted before. Comfort? A kiss? Acknowledgement that they mean something to each other? Sex?
He snaps off the light and gets under the rough sheets without bothering to wash up or brush his teeth. The room is chilly and quiet.
As hotel rooms always seem to be. Too quiet and too cold and too lonely, all things that Wilson doesn't want right now.
He rolls over, pulling the fuzzy brown blanket and comforter tight around him, and curls up like he used to do in his sleeping bag at summer camp after they'd told ghost stories around the fire.
Again, an image from youth (after the Ouija board before), evoking a sharper, deeper fear and vulnerability than adults often let themselves feel, and the even more primal fetal position for good measure. Poor Wilson.
Neither here nor there, but when I wrote that I was thinking of one of the only overnight trips we had at one camp I attended as a kid, where we passed around one of those Scary Stories books and I couldn't shake the creepy illustrations at bedtime.
When he finally falls asleep, he dreams of empty ATMs and House turning his back on him.
Last lines, like summaries, and titles, and lots of things, are hard. This line popped into my head sometime during the initial drafting, and it was a great relief to have it in place for the story to unwind into. I think it's a good summation of what's upsetting Wilson-the recently cut-off account and House's rejection-and therefore what he cares about, and also sets him up nicely for the events of "Whac-a-Mole."
And, that's it!
Any questions? Comments? I have no idea if I talked about what anyone wanted.
For reference, you can read the original draft of the story here, and the dream I had was described here with unabashed melodrama. It's fun to read that now, knowing how it evolved into this.
x-posted to ficcommentary here and house_wilson here
The complete story without commentary is posted here; you'll probably want to read that first.
I'm excited to do commentary for this fic because there really is a story to how it all came together. I had a fantastic dream in June 2006 about House and Wilson almostalmost getting together only for House to turn away, and I wanted to turn it into a fic that would translate the excitement followed by gut-wrenching disappointment to readers. It sat and sat in the back of my mind, waiting for the right framework. Then "Son of Coma Guy" came along. I still cannot express how much I love that episode. A few days after it aired, I realized that it had provided a perfect setup for the dream-story: Wilson could ask House Gabe's question about loving someone (him) and make a tentative move, and House, open and vulnerable after the night's events, could let it happen for just a few moments before backing off, closing himself off.
I wrote the first incomplete draft the night before "Whac-a-Mole" aired, before any new canon could alter the story in my mind or disrupt the mood "Son of Coma Guy" had instilled in me. Because of the dream, I wrote it in present tense instead of past; it emphasizes the immediacy of the actions and emotions. The beginning of that draft got completely stripped down when I wrote and edited the final version a couple of months later, but the tense stayed the same, and the essential parts were sketched out and the melancholic tone was established in that initial sitting.
I'd figured the story would be an AU tag to "Son of Coma Guy," but it ended up fitting into the space between the episodes really well with just a couple of tweaks. I liked pretending that Wilson's anger in "Whac-a-Mole" could be blamed on House's rejection of him as much as everything else that was going on.
So that is the genesis story of this fic. And now, on to the commentary:
Title: Untouchable
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: R
I'd thought about warning for UST, by which I mean advertising the UST, because it's a draw for me in other people's fic headers, but I worried that it would spoil the suspense of the embrace/kissing scene if people knew House and Wilson wouldn't be getting together, and my betas agreed that it was best to leave it out. Betas are smart.
Word Count: 3,200
Summary: After Atlantic City, Wilson seeks comfort at House's apartment and asks a question of his own.
Summaries can be really hard; they have to encapsulate the story's plot and emotion without giving everything away (or spoiling people for the episode). It took a while, but I think this is one of the better fic summaries I've come up with.
Spoilers: Takes place immediately following "Son of Coma Guy," with spoilers for Season 3 up to that episode.
A/N: Thank you to my wonderful, wonderful f-list, especially topaz_eyes and usomitai, for input on the first draft way back in November as well as betaing on the completed story. Concrit still welcome.
I mean it about the concrit. Even if the time has passed when I'll edit the story in question, I'd love to get advice on what people think doesn't work so that I can keep it in mind in the future.
Wilson follows House back to his apartment from the hospital with the promise of food to settle his rumbling stomach and companionship to calm his thoughts. God, it feels like he's spent the whole day in his car. He parks across the street and almost groans with relief when he gets out and stretches his back.
The first draft of this story started very differently. It opened while Wilson and House were still in Atlantic City and Gabe was being carted out; then it followed Wilson back to Princeton in his car as he brooded about the Tritter situation and his own growing despair; then it filled in another gap in the episode by explaining that they didn't get lectured by Cuddy, and finally it trailed Wilson and House from the hospital to House's apartment.
It looked like this, actually:
House coerces the EMTs into letting him ride in the Medevac 'copter with Gabriel's body. Even though he had Gabe take a dozen aspirin as a precaution, he needs to ensure that the heart remains viable in transit. Otherwise everything that happened today-the miraculous awakening, the soul-baring revelations, a father's self-sacrifice so his dying son might live-will have been for naught.
So Wilson drives back to Princeton with only a handful of candy wrappers and echoes of rapid-fire conversation for company.
[Wilson's reflections... What he learned about House… A man he didn't know yesterday is dead and a teenager he doesn't know now will probably live... He'd never seen House perform euthanasia, and as he'd heard Cuddy tell House over the phone, this was different: it was assisted suicide for someone who wasn't already dying.]
Halfway home, his stomach starts grumbling. He fishes around in the wreckage on the passenger seat without looking away from the road. His searching fingers find only crinkling plastic and sticky foil: All empty. He winces at a second, louder gurgle. Should've wrapped up that hoagie.
[Stops at a gas station for something.] The credit card processor won't work, so he pays in cash. He makes a mental note to stop at the first-floor ATM again to replenish what he dished out today.
Despite the stop, he makes it back to the hospital in an hour and a half. He parks by the main entrance, figuring he'll meet House in one of their offices. They'll be throwing House out of the surgical suite any minute now, if he hasn't been banished already. Then Cuddy will probably want them both in her office for an interrogation that will put Tritter to shame and which House will handle just as flippantly.
Crap. Tritter. Wilson sags in his seat. With all the crazy events of the day, he almost managed to forget about the investigation that's threatening to swell and engulf him along with the man who got him into this mess. This morning he was upset about lying about the forged signatures. After tonight, he can add the somewhat more concerning "accessory to murder" to his list of offenses.
He grips the steering wheel, closes his eyes and takes five deep, measured breaths. Panic later. House now. Then interrogation. Then dinner. Then bed. He switches off the ignition, grabs his satchel, gets out of the car and heads inside.
* * *
No trip to the principal's office, as it turns out, for which he is grateful. No lecture on playing hooky, either. He suspects he'll be getting a call first thing in the morning, after he's had some time to recover.
But Cuddy stands fairly low on Wilson's list of things to be worried about at the moment. His accounts have been frozen. He can't access his own money. And House's fellows were questioned this afternoon. Tritter's creeping closer. As their conversation by the ATM just proved, House is still brushing off the whole affair, but Wilson can see the hairline fractures forming in his façade. A week ago he would have been happy to know that someone found a way to take House down a peg. Now that he's becoming entangled in House's web of lies and recklessness, however, the last thing he wants to see is this hesitation, this hint of fear in his friend's eyes. Tonight, House looks as tired as Wilson feels. That doesn't bode well for either of them.
Wilson walks away from the cash machine without waiting; he knows House will follow, and with his own defeated gait he also knows it won't be difficult for House to catch up. Sure enough, House is half a step ahead of him by the time they round the next corner.
When they pause at the front doors where they're supposed to part ways for their respective vehicles, House gives him a look that lets Wilson know he's too exhausted to want to ride his bike home. Wilson's not feeling fully conscious himself, but he nods and leads the way back to his car. As if they haven't spent enough time in it today.
They don't talk the whole way back to House's apartment.
* * *
House's idea of getting dinner is to slap a twenty into Wilson's hand and tell him to call in for whatever he wants. Then he disappears down the hall to take a shower.
[...]
All of that to establish the mood and set the scene in House's apartment for the important part: the question and the close encounter.
In the comments to that draft, usomitai very correctly pointed out that the story was getting bogged down in too much thought, at risk of collapsing under so much unfocused internal monologue. Most of the time that passed between the first draft and the finished story was spent mulling over whether and how much to cut. In the end, as you can tell, it all went. I liked a few parts of it and was sorry to see them go, like the hint about his account being frozen when his credit card doesn't work, the symbolism of the destroyed candy wrappers littering his car and House being half a step ahead of him after the ATM, and the joke about that ridiculous hoagie. But they had to go, and the story is stronger for it. Plus, a few of the most important/effective sentences did get folded in to the final story. You probably recognize them: the "accessory to murder" line is one, as is Wilson pushing back his panic until after dinner and the bit about "as if they haven't spent enough time" in Wilson's car that day.
So that got cut, and the second draft then started with that last excerpted paragraph. It needed more of an introduction, though, and that's how the first paragraph of the final story was born.
Then we pick up where the draft continued, with a couple of minor adjustments for clarity:
When he steps into the apartment, he learns that House's idea of getting dinner is to slap a twenty into his hand and tell him to call in for whatever he wants. Then House limps off down the hall to take a shower.
Wilson stares at the wrinkled bill, thinking that this wasn't quite the situation he had in mind all those times he wished House would pay for food for a change. His accounts are frozen. His stomach plummets, just as it did when the customer service rep delivered the news to him over the phone. He has no idea how he's going to handle this, how long he'll be able to stretch out the $100 he's got in his wallet, how he's going to pay for food, and gas, and his room, how much he's willing to risk charging to his credit cards, and what will happen if he goes broke before House settles this thing with the cops.
Wilson's reaction to the frozen bank account got pretty well glossed over with everything that was happening to House and with Wilson struggling with his towed car, suspended DEA license and decision to close down his practice. Here, I wondered what might have been going through his head right after he found out Tritter had cut him off. Wilson has always been House's moneylender (which, gah, bad historical implications for Jews, but that's not the point), always has money on him, seems to be well off; what would he do if he suddenly couldn't access anything, lost his safety net?
He gets ahold of himself when he hears the showerhead sputter to life and the first pulses of water drum against the tub. Panic later. Dinner now.
I like "sputter" and "drum." Nice, evocative verbs. (Er, if I do say so myself.)
He doesn't feel like Chinese, or Italian, or Thai, or Indian. He wants something simple, plain and preferably warm. Soup, maybe. He leaves the money on the table by the door and walks into the kitchen to see if House has anything edible lying around that he can assemble into some kind of meal.
Wilson seeking comfort. He doesn't want a dirty bill, he wants House's company (even if he's smart enough not to expect House's sympathy or help). He doesn't want fancy food, but something warm and home-cooked. (And in my fanon-land, his hotel room doesn't have a kitchen.) He grumbles, but he's glad to be able to putter around in House's kitchen and feed the both of them.
He finds white bread and cheddar cheese among the usual staples and take-out containers in the fridge. The crisper smells suspicious. He squints; something else seems off. He can't put his finger on what, though,
And there's the start of the intertwined theme of Tritter messing up House's life as well as Wilson's. Wilson is intimately familiar with House's kitchen, between having been friends for so long and having lived there. The little shifts throw him off even before he realizes what they are and why they're there.
so he slides out the drawer, holds it at arm's length and carries it over to the cabinet under the sink where House keeps his garbage bin. When he opens the left door, the bin isn't there. He stands bewildered for a moment, then tries the right door and finds it on that side. He dumps the rotting vegetables and puts the crisper back.
House so has rotting veggies in his crisper. One of Wilson's chores when they cohabitated was probably to keep the fridge clean along with the dishes.
Grilled cheese, then, and soup to go with it. House always has some cans in the cupboard. He ducks down to the cabinet beside the oven to get a frying pan and one of the small pots. It's a mess in there; it takes him a minute to find what he needs. He absently wonders at the disarray as he starts a pat of butter heating in the pan on the stove and goes in search of soup.
Writers: When a beta makes a suggestion and you take it, do you hear their voice in your head every time you read the word(s) that changed? nightdog_barks suggested "pat" for "piece" here, which I think was a good substitution, more domestic and thick/fatty/comfort-sounding, but "pat" isn't something I say normally, so it's like she's there with a nudge each time I read that sentence.
Packets of yeast and sugar tumble out when he opens the upper cabinet where the cans are. Peering up, he sees that half the contents have been knocked over, and a few of them belong in a different cabinet. He frowns. House's kitchen may never be well-stocked, but it's always relatively neat and organized. As he locates a stash of Campbell's condensed tomato soup behind an errant box of pasta, he realizes that that's what was bothering him about the fridge-some of the items were in the wrong places. And the garbage can....
Then he realizes why.
Tritter.
Annnnd the lightbulb pings on.
Tritter must have searched the kitchen along with the rest of the apartment, combing through the fridge, drawers and cabinets and shoving everything back haphazardly when he found the pill bottles House had squirrelled away in the spice rack or a saucepan or cereal boxes or wherever he'd been hiding them.
Seriously, where did House stash that many pills?
I'm happy with the alliteration there: squirrelled, spice, sauce, cereal.
Or House shoved everything back when he came home that day, and he's been fixing things only as he uses them.
Wilson steps out into the living room. Now that he's looking for it, he sees it everywhere: books out of order on the shelves, some upside-down; knickknacks and photographs rearranged on the mantel; papers and journals piled in drifts on the floor against the edges of furniture; stuff kicked under the coffee table.
A lot of people who commented to the fic praised its attention to detail. I thought that was funny-I mean, it's great to hear, I'm glad it works, but it's also funny, because really I find it much harder to write any other way. This is my natural writing pace, a sort of "real time," and I'm a very visual writer on top of it; I see the scene in front of me, and that's what I describe.
He closes his eyes. It's only a matter of time before the cops start sniffing around his own office. His hotel room. The hotel room that will only be his for as long as his last payment holds out. Before Tritter questions him again. And to think that this morning he was upset about lying about the forged signatures. As of tonight, he can add "accessory to murder" to his list of offenses.
Much better than trying to stick all that stuff into a huge, rambling internal monologue in that original draft.
The butter starts to sizzle, drawing him back into the kitchen. He concentrates on preparing the meal, taking slow, deep breaths, calmed by the rich scent of hot butter and cheese.
Because I'm a visual writer, a lot of times I neglect to describe the other senses. Here, because everything is so solemn, slow and deliberate, I tried to add more sensory details: how it smells, what it sounds like.
This is a time for comfort food if ever there was one. He'll have a salad for lunch tomorrow to compensate.
Oh, Wilson and his salad-scarfing.
If he can still afford a salad. Fuck.
Theory: Tritter plus frozen bank accounts leads to stress and less money leads to eating poorly leads to season three weight gain.
He forces the thought away. Stir the soup. Flip the sandwich. Get dishes and silverware.
He's just switching off the stove and pouring the soup into the two bowls he set out next to the pile of crisped sandwiches when House's voice startles him.
"So even when I get dinner, you get dinner."
Wilson glances over. House is leaning in the doorway in sweatpants and a tee shirt, barefoot and tapping his cane against the jamb. He looks as exhausted as Wilson feels.
Bare feet = vulnerability. House needs to be vulnerable for the rest of the story to work. That's why "Son of Coma Guy" works so well as a setup; he's got to be feeling fragile and exhausted (and therefore extra-special snippy) after the day's questions laid him open in front of a stranger and his best friend.
"Nobody's going to deliver at this time of night," he replies, sliding spoons into the bowls.
"Didn't stop you in Atlantic City." House steps closer and peers at the food. "You just can't bring yourself to spend my money. Or did you pocket the twenty so you can eat tomorrow?"
Pursing his lips, Wilson picks up the plate and one of the bowls and walks past him. "Eat before it gets cold."
Grilled cheese and soup are staple comfort foods, and "Eat before it gets cold" is kind of a natural thing to say when you're hungry and kind of pissed off/exhausted, but I may have unconsciously stolen this from topaz_eyes's fic Relevance, which I didn't realize until months later when I re-read her story and started when I saw the same line. Eep.
They could eat around the island in the kitchen, but he needs to sit, and if he's that tired he can only imagine what state House is in.
Oh, Wilson. Even in your darkest hour, you're considerate of House.
He sinks into his usual spot on the couch, lays the food out on the table in front of him and takes a bite of one of the sandwiches. The crust is burned on one edge more than he likes, but aside from that it's delicious-firm and buttery on the outside, soft and warm on the inside.
Like House, see? Caustic and damaged, but Wilson loves his tough skin and squishy center.
House comes in, finally, holding his cane in one hand and two open beer bottles in the other. Frowning, Wilson asks, "Where's your soup?"
"Had to sell my third arm to pay the hitman who's taking care of Tritter," is the reply as House sits beside him and sets the beer on the table. "Luckily I got to keep my third leg. And I don't mean the cane." He gives a half-hearted leer.
Half-hearted = tired, and also comfortable with Wilson; he doesn't need to put on a face for anyone.
When Wilson only takes another bite and regards him evenly, House glances away and takes a huge bite of his own sandwich; it's a small miracle that Wilson understands his muffled, "Don't like tomato soup."
I love that Wilson can draw honesty out of House from beneath the protective layer of sarcasm.
"Then... why do you have three cans of it?"
House shoots him a look usually reserved for his fellows when they're being particularly obtuse.
Did that come across? It's because Wilson likes tomato soup. House bought them for him at some point.
He reaches for his beer. "Haven't we had enough interrogation for one day?"
No, Wilson thinks. We barely got started. There's one question in particular he would have liked to pursue further; maybe he can steer House back around to it tonight.
One of the things that tripped me up in this conversation was figuring out how to lead into the Big Question-how to indicate that Wilson was building up to it, considering the best way to bring it up. It was tricky, trying to work those bits in without hiding too much of Wilson's thoughts/plans from readers since he's the POV character (creating artificial and potentially annoying suspense; there were some meta posts about that floating around back then). Some of them went in at the last minute, and I don't think they all work well. I've underlined the transitions so they stand out to you like they still stand out to me when I reread the story.
But House has revealed more about himself in the last few hours than he has in years, so Wilson keeps quiet for the moment and reaches for the other beer. He taps the bottom of the bottle against House's before they drink. "To Gabriel."
House grunts a soft approval and takes a long drink.
Neither of them turns on the television; it seems disrespectful, somehow.
I definitely wanted them to acknowledge Gabriel's death, as a tribute to the man who wrung truth out of House and set all of this in motion and whose death really did affect them both. I thought the quiet toast and silent agreement to keep the TV off was a good way to do it, and also to preserve the heavy silence of their long day and leave things open for a new conversation. Wilson couldn't ask his serious question and expect an honest answer if one of House's stupid shows were on in the background.
The rest of the meal is accompanied only by quiet crunching, slurping, the swipe of napkins on lips and the soft squeak of leather as they shift into more comfortable positions.
They don't talk until dinner has been reduced to a plate of crumbs, a scraped-clean bowl and two empty bottles. The belch that signals House's satisfaction transforms into a yawn. "You may as well stay over," he says when he's finished. "It'll be late when you're good to drive."
"I've had one beer," Wilson reminds him, "and it's already late." But he knows he'll be taking him up on the offer. He needs a home tonight instead of a hotel.
One of the things I hated about the Tritter arc was how little support Wilson got. House, Cuddy, Cameron, Tritter, all on his back. And on top of it all, he didn't even have a home to go to in the evenings, just that sad, impersonal room.
"You want to go, then?"
"No."
Quiet again. To keep from staring at the disorder and facing what it may mean for both of them, hoping he can broach the topic he wants to, he asks, "You want to talk about what happened today?"
House turns to face him. "There's nothing left to say."
Wilson gives a breathy laugh. "Nothing left? You dodged half that guy's questions, not to mention every one I asked you."
Well, it's true! A lot was said, but more was left unanswered. Of course House would try to pass off his reluctant confessions as enough for one day and Wilson would still want more.
There's a flash of something like hurt in House's eyes, but before Wilson can identify it, it's replaced with a more familiar, weary anger. "Talking about what inspired me to practice medicine in front of you filled my month's quota for heart-to-hearts."
House-speak for "leave me alone."
It's a perfect opening. "Yeah, about that story, with the-what was it? Bark-something?"
"Buraku," House mutters.
"Buraku," he repeats to buy some time. He has to phrase things carefully to lead the conversation where he wants it to go. "It's an awfully convenient metaphor."
"What would have been awfully convenient was me kicking you out of the room sooner."
Refusing to take the bait, he continues: "I don't know if what you described back there was true, but I know you want it to be. This is how you were with that autistic kid. You see yourself in these-these noble misfits, brilliant and misunderstood and shunned by society. You envy them. But you're different from them, House. You're not untouchable. You just wish you were."
A little meta, but I think it works all right because Wilson tends to say things like this on the show. That buraku metaphor really was a little too perfect, and I like thinking that House crafted it over the years to fit how he'd like to see himself rather than that it really happened that way. It touches on the theme of the subjectivity of truth that appeared in a line Doris Egan said she cut from the episode ("I can't tell you if it happened. I can tell you that it's true.").
Throughout this speech, House has been making various uncomfortable and annoyed faces at him and other objects in the room. Now he shifts his gaze from the ceiling to Wilson. "Are you done?"
Almost there. "I want to know something. One of the questions today you never answered."
"No. That game's over."
It's flat, abrupt, dismissive. Wilson blinks. "You'll spill your deepest, darkest secrets to a stranger who's been a vegetable for ten years, but you won't answer one simple question for me?"
It's easier for House to tell secrets to strangers; they don't matter.
"Yeah. Because in another few hours, he was going to be permanently unconscious and therefore unable to lecture me."
"And now he's dead," Wilson says, "and I made sure you don't get arrested for it. That's got to be worth something in this conversation. Just... answer this for me."
One of my weaknesses is making Wilson too passive and angst-ridden. I like how here he tosses the argument right back at House and gets what he wants.
House's eyes betray his acquiescence before he speaks. "Look, I only stole the damn pad because you were too hard-headed to-"
"Not about the pad. Not about the drugs.
Looking back, I'm sorry to have had Wilson cut House off like this. I was concentrating on getting Wilson to ask the question he needed to ask for this story, but he does still want to know why House stole his prescription pad, and I think he would have let House explain himself before going on to ask the other question.
Not about any of that. I want to know something else." House waits, poker face in place, while Wilson takes a breath. "Have you ever loved anyone after Stacy?"
And we finally get to Wilson's point and the hinge of the story. While I'm not convinced from watching the episode that Wilson would harp on this question-he seemed to take it well enough when the conversation shifted in the car that afternoon-, I definitely wanted to know, and I think a lot of other people wanted to know, and I didn't think it was too much of a stretch to bring it up again like this.
"That's what you want to know?"
"Yes."
House looks away. "If you don't know the answer to that, you're more of an idiot than I thought."
Classic House evasions, defenses against talking about what matters to him: breaking eye contact, a familiar insult, not answering the question.
"You can't get away with not answering this time. Tell me. Have you ever loved anyone else?"
"I love my mom."
"Don't be glib."
I do think House's mom is one of the few people he loves, whatever faults he sees in her, whatever she may have let happen while he was growing up (and you know he was thinking about his father, after everything he and Gabe and Wilson talked about that day, after what he said to the son after the surgery, even if "One Day, One Room" hadn't aired yet). I like this exchange; it was one of the first that popped to mind when I started drafting, and I'm glad it stayed in.
There's a pause. He can't read the thoughts behind the tiny fluctuations in House's expression. "I'm too tired for this," House says at last. "I'm going to bed." He stands and picks up his cane, keeping his face averted.
Wilson rises and takes hold of House's elbow. House shakes his head to the side, once, without tugging his arm free, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet, rough, with an edge to it that sounds like a plea. "Don't push this."
House, at the breaking point.
He needs to push this, though, or he'll have to wait months or years more for another chance at an answer. "Look at me," he presses, softening his voice.
It's a long shot, but after a moment, he does, startling Wilson with the vulnerability in those expressive blue eyes. They hold each other's gazes in a silent conversation.
Eugh. Terrible line. There have got to be better ways to describe the complex nonverbal exchanges those two have so often.
When House looks down again, all the fight seems to have gone out of him.
"House," Wilson tries for the last time, gently, even as his heart beats faster. "Have you-Do you...?"
And here, we transition into the embrace/kiss/rejection from that dream-into the "oh, oh, oh, are they going to-?" mode (I hoped, as I was writing).
House lets out a slow breath. Very carefully, Wilson strokes his hand up and down his bare arm. When that doesn't meet with a protest, he takes a cautious step closer. House closes his eyes.
The hell with it, Wilson thinks, and with another half-step forward, he slides his arms around House until their chests touch. Before he can think better of it, he presses his face into the crook of House's neck: skin and warmth and soap and slept-in cotton.
Fanfic pet peeve: when people smell like Item A, Item B, and "something uniquely [their name]." Agh. I mean, it's a common construction because it's often true (TMI: I could say my ex smelled like Lever 2000 soap and his father's cigarette smoke and something uniquely him), but when you've read it a hundred times, it wears. So here's four things, only one a real scent, none uniquely House.
House's stubble rasps against his ear. He can't feel the scar from the bullet wound.
House stands still and stiff in his embrace, and now Wilson can feel the tremors rippling through his arms, back and neck. Come on, House, he urges in his head. Let go. Let me in. Admit that I'm already in.
He lets out a ragged breath when House relaxes and brings his left hand up to rest in the middle of Wilson's back. Within a few moments they're rocking slightly, slowly, left to right and back again. He doesn't know which of them initiated the gentle sway-he's certain that, like children playing with a Ouija board, they'll both deny being the source of the movement-and he doesn't care, so long as it keeps going.
The sway came from the dream; I don't know that I'd have written it otherwise, and I almost took it out, but I liked the implication of rocking someone gently for comfort, and then the Ouija board comparison came to me and that sealed the deal, because of course neither Wilson nor House would ever admit to wanting to hug like that.
He starts stroking his thumb along House's shoulder blade. At first it provokes no response, but then House rubs his cheek once against Wilson's jaw, lifting and settling back in nearly the same position; a nuzzle disguised as readjustment.
House's defenses are really something to behold. Even when they're together like this, he still won't admit to wanting or giving affection; he's been burned before, and he's not going to let someone else in that easily. Even someone who knows him as well as Wilson.
Wilson draws back without letting go, and House raises his head in return. It's almost a physical jolt when their eyes meet again. He can feel his own breath as it brushes against House's nose and mouth and curls back towards him. Swallowing once for courage, he leans into the remaining space between them.
A symbolic and physical space; and it's that first that hurts more when House pulls away.
Their lips barely touch; just enough of a dry, feathery brush to trigger that surface nerve that needs to be pressed before it will stop tingling.
It's not just me who gets that sometimes, right? Right?
Before he can come in for a second, firmer pass, there's a thump-the tip of House's cane on the hardwood floor-and House pulls away. He swears once, softly. Then he's gone-out of Wilson's embrace, out of the room.
Too much. Too much for one day. That was the limit, and House shut down.
Silence. Wilson stands alone in the middle of the living room looking at the space where House used to be, his arms limp at his sides. His face and body gradually cool where House was touching him. He tilts his head up at the ceiling and squeezes his eyes shut, then grinds his hand into his lower lip, silencing the twinging nerve.
If only he could as easily grind out the pain of House walking away.
He knows House does not want to be followed. He also knows that what he witnessed was House closing himself off, making himself once more untouchable in all the ways that matter.
The best thing that ever happened to this story was realizing that House's too-perfect tale of the buraku offered the perfect theme (and ultimately the title) for what needed to happen: untouchability. Not that House is untouchable, but that he wants it, tries every day to achieve it, as Wilson said before.
After inhaling and releasing a deep breath, he walks slowly down the hall, following the light to House's bedroom door. House stands at the foot of his bed staring at the mattress, leaning on his cane with both arms.
Agh, poor stubborn yearning damaged tired men.
Wilson puts a hand on the doorjamb. His chest feels tight. "House," he begins, not knowing what he wants to say.
It doesn't matter anyway; without turning around, House says, "Blanket and pillow are in the closet."
Wilson swallows. He doesn't trust his voice. He does know that if House would only look at him, he'd be able to read everything in Wilson's eyes, and then it would be all right.
More images/altered lines from the dream. My heart was just about breaking at that point, and I really wanted to convey that yearning and disappointment-wanted people to go, "Nooooo!" along with me. Because I'm a sadist. Heh. No, but because UST can be a beautiful thing, and sadly, I think it's one of the most realistic outcomes for the two of them. (The other being "and they lived dysfunctionally ever after," "ever after" meaning "until the inevitable huge argument resulting in a nasty breakup.")
But House straightens, turns, and limps past him into the bathroom without meeting his gaze. He turns on the tap and uncaps his toothpaste.
Wilson follows his progress with increasing misery. "House, I-"
"Good night," House says around his foamy toothbrush. He won't even look at Wilson in the mirror.
Again and again: No eye contact says so much. House doesn't trust himself to look at Wilson right now, or he may very well break. It's a part of the character interpretation that says his prickliness comes from great sensitivity. (Without going all emo about it.)
Wilson stands there for another few moments, then gives up. He goes back into the living room, where the subtler mess from Tritter's guys is now supplemented with dinner detritus on the coffee table and crumpled napkins on the floor. He'll have to clean up before concentrating on making the couch into a passable bed so he can toss and turn in his clothes all night while House sleeps in his soft queen-sized bed down the hall, like a rerun of last spring. As if they weren't just kissing inches away from that couch. As if House didn't just shut down before his eyes. There's a streak of grease from one of their buttery hands on the armrest where his feet will go.
Jesus. Jesus, he can't stay here.
An awesome thing that happened after "Untouchable" was posted was that there was a brief discussion over at housefic_pens about "showing" vs. "telling" that used this paragraph as an example. I hope deelaundry doesn't mind me reposting her comment, because I think it's a really cool explication of what's going on here as well as a great demonstration of clunky "telling":
Wilson walks away from House, back into the living room. He feels terrible, that everything is now a mess, not only in House's apartment, but between him and House. House doesn't seem to care; he'll make Wilson sleep on the couch just like last spring. He knows House is never going to deal with the kiss, how he feels, or how screwed up their relationship is. Wilson can't take it any more.
How cool is that? *g* And it's true: This is Wilson's breaking point.
His coat is by the door on top of House's where he left it; he slings it on, and his fumbling hands suddenly can't button it fast enough. He only manages to get one glove on before he's out the door, holding the other in his teeth as he locks up. It's not until he's sitting in the driver's seat of his car in a mist of his own quick breaths that he remembers the money on the front table. He'll have to make do with staff lounge supplies tomorrow, which probably means bread and butter.
Added that in after the PBJs of "Whac-a-Mole."
Unless House gets his head out of his ass and treats him to a meal.
Yeah, right.
"Fuck," he grits out, clenching his fists. Then, with a surge of emotions he doesn't want to begin to identify, he slams the heel of his hand into the top of the steering wheel. "Fuck!"
Aaaand there's the R rating.
Again-trying to make Wilson angry instead of sad; a more traditionally (stereotypically) masculine reaction to something upsetting, but also to set up his behavior in "Whac-a-Mole," where he's already pissed off before even more misfortune gets heaped on him.
That makes him feel a little better; enough to start the engine, take a deep breath, let it out, and pull away from the curb.
He parks at the hotel without remembering how he drove there and rides up to his floor with a mind as blank as Gabe's eyes when the EMTs wheeled him out.
Eh. A little overboard there.
When he keys open the door to his room, he notices that he's shaking a little. He tells himself it's from the cold.
He always was good at lying to himself.
The only light comes from the table lamp he likes to leave on when he goes out, and he lets his eyes adjust to the dimness as he changes for bed. He doesn't think about House settling into his own bed in his apartment, or the dozen different ways he could have handled things tonight, or the feel of House against his cheek and in his arms, or how close they came to-
Broken off to indicate that Wilson doesn't want to finish the thought because it's too painful, and it also neatly allows for slashy or non-slashy interpretation of what Wilson wanted before. Comfort? A kiss? Acknowledgement that they mean something to each other? Sex?
He snaps off the light and gets under the rough sheets without bothering to wash up or brush his teeth. The room is chilly and quiet.
As hotel rooms always seem to be. Too quiet and too cold and too lonely, all things that Wilson doesn't want right now.
He rolls over, pulling the fuzzy brown blanket and comforter tight around him, and curls up like he used to do in his sleeping bag at summer camp after they'd told ghost stories around the fire.
Again, an image from youth (after the Ouija board before), evoking a sharper, deeper fear and vulnerability than adults often let themselves feel, and the even more primal fetal position for good measure. Poor Wilson.
Neither here nor there, but when I wrote that I was thinking of one of the only overnight trips we had at one camp I attended as a kid, where we passed around one of those Scary Stories books and I couldn't shake the creepy illustrations at bedtime.
When he finally falls asleep, he dreams of empty ATMs and House turning his back on him.
Last lines, like summaries, and titles, and lots of things, are hard. This line popped into my head sometime during the initial drafting, and it was a great relief to have it in place for the story to unwind into. I think it's a good summation of what's upsetting Wilson-the recently cut-off account and House's rejection-and therefore what he cares about, and also sets him up nicely for the events of "Whac-a-Mole."
And, that's it!
Any questions? Comments? I have no idea if I talked about what anyone wanted.
For reference, you can read the original draft of the story here, and the dream I had was described here with unabashed melodrama. It's fun to read that now, knowing how it evolved into this.
x-posted to ficcommentary here and house_wilson here