House fic: "Tango: el Pasion de Amistad"
Title: Tango: el Pasion de Amistad
Rated: PG 13
Part: 1/1
Characters: House, Wilson
Pairings: None.
Summary: A look at the friendship between House and Wilson through the lens of tango. No slash intended. Sensual friendship.
Notes: Spoilers for S5 season finale, "Both Sides Now."
No idea why I decided to rewrite this idea from several years ago when I should be working on a shitload of original fiction/nonfiction -- but what the hell.
Tango: el Pasion de Amistad
by Marie S. Crosswell
Abrazo (Embrace)
Arms around each other, eyes searing into soul. Hips against hips. One bended knee. Back arched a little, chest toward the lead’s. Hands tight together. The need to devour each other.
Wilson doesn’t move, as House walks into Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital. He watches the other man go, and it isn’t anything new: House leaving him alone. But Wilson’s left enough times of his own. They don’t hold it against each other anymore.
He doesn’t expect House to turn back and look at him like that. He can see those blue eyes no matter how far away, and he’s surprised when he feels his throat close, his eyes sting, his face tighten into a protective, failed smile.
In that moment, Wilson feels the urge to run for House, so intense his belly clenches with a cross between pain and nausea. He wants to snatch House away from those strangers and make a run for it, drive and never look back.
The door shuts before Wilson can move, and House disappears. Wilson stands there a little longer, beneath an infinite, unforgiving sky. He stares and stares, as if enough patience will bring House back.
Cruce (Cross)
Step back, step back, one leg against the other. He leads you blind, and you don’t question. Silenced by that look. Step back, step back, cross. You move together.
“Don’t call,” says Cuddy, when she and Wilson go back to work on Monday. “Give it a week, at least. Wait for him to call.”
She’s standing half out, half in Wilson’s office doorway. He peers at her from where he sits at his desk and nods.
“He has to do this on his own,” she says.
Wilson knows. He hates it anyway. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday goes by. Nothing’s changed besides House’s absence from PPTH, but Wilson hasn’t been this lonely since Amber died. On Thursday, his office swept in dusk, he sits at his desk with his face in both hands and takes a deep breath. He tries to imagine what stage of detox House must be in, stops himself after he realizes that will only exacerbate his own stress.
He gets up and leaves his office, decides to go for a walk, get some air - but stops in front of House’s name. Thirteen and Taub are gone, and House’s two rooms are empty.
Wilson checks to make sure no one’s watching him, before going into House’s office. He sits in his best friend’s chair, lays both his hands on the desk as if he’s touching a dead man’s things.
When Wilson fled, House pursued. Push, push, push, until he had Wilson against the wall. Until Wilson couldn’t breathe, pinned there between “hard” and “ruthless.” House slamming him against that wall.
“Because no one can take away what you no longer have.”
Now, it’s Wilson’s turn to lead.
Giro (Turn)
You move in circles. He steers you but stays stills - the sun, burning too hot, but you look anyway until he is all you see. You revolve around him. You let him move you. You both know you don’t have a choice. He turns you and turns you, and the only reason you don’t get dizzy is because he’s your unmoving focal point.
House calls on Sunday. Wilson’s home, watching a television show he doesn’t care about and drinking a beer, delivery pizza only half eaten in the box on the coffee table. He’ll probably throw out the leftovers in the morning.
“Of course, you call collect,” he says, as soon as he picks up the phone.
“I have to make up for all the lunches you’re not buying me while I’m in here,” says House. Wilson smiles at that, only because he knows House won’t see.
“Is this your one phone call a week?”
“I’m in the nut house, Wilson, not prison.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Less rape, more art. What’s on TV?”
“It’s Sunday.”
“Point.”
They quit for a moment, and Wilson isn’t paying attention to the TV, just House - the silence as treasured as the words. He waits for House to breathe, but that never comes.
“My, God,” House says. “I can hear you brooding from over here.”
Wilson makes a face and sips his Heineken.
“I’m not brooding,” he says.
“You brood.”
“You brood.”
“Yeah, but I look cool when I do it. You just look pathetic.”
Wilson thinks he hears a tapping noise on House’s end, probably some guy knocking to tell House his phone time is up. House doesn’t pause.
“Drinking, watching mindless television, you probably ordered some crappy pizza because that makes you feel worse. Few more beers and you’ll be ready to cry through a Dave Brubeck album in the dark.”
“Trust me, I’m getting through the pain of actually eating the chips I buy at lunch.”
“Trying to figure out what else you could’ve done, stewing in guilt-”
Wilson hears the tapping noise again, and House stops.
“Visiting hours are Monday through Thursday from six to nine,” he says. He hangs up before Wilson can answer, and Wilson sets his cell phone down on the couch next to him.
The warm swell House’s voice pulled over him withdraws like the tide, leaving him colder than he was before.
Boleo (Whip)
He holds you close, hand strong on your back, and you are his mirror. He tells you where to go and how to go there, and you don’t think. You go. But at the last minute, he changes direction, and you sense it one second too late. You jerk around to catch up, looking at him, asking without asking why he did that. And he looks at you and answers without answering: trust me.
Wilson doesn’t visit until Thursday night. He shakes every pen he writes with from Monday to Thursday and bounces his right leg twice as fast and twice as often, but he tells himself that he should appear as calm and well-adjusted as possible. He doesn’t hear from House again between the Sunday night phone call and his Thursday night visit. He doesn’t call to let House know he’s coming either.
Some part of Wilson expects House to meet him in the visiting room with a smile on his face. Instead, House looks half-dead, and Wilson feels a little sick watching him wheel himself toward their table. Wilson waits for him standing up and doesn’t sit until House parks across from him. House doesn’t look at him right away, catches his breath, and Wilson doesn’t interrupt.
“Didn’t think you’d be here this soon,” House says.
“It’s been almost two weeks,” says Wilson.
“Thought you would want to wait for the worst to be over.”
“How long do you think it’ll take?”
House raises an eyebrow at him and licks his lips. Wilson looks down into his lap.
“Yeah, stupid question.”
“Did you bring me anything good? Porn, food, heroin?”
Wilson shakes his head.
“This isn’t Princeton-Plainsboro. These guys have no sense of humor.”
“I didn’t think any place was beyond Jimmy Wilson’s amazing powers of manipulation. I was counting on you.”
Wilson reaches into his bag for something. He sets a rubix cube on the table between him and House. House rolls his eyes, scoffs, and frowns, but Wilson catches a twitch at the corners of his mouth.
“Oh, come on,” House says. “Those stopped being fun when I was twelve.”
“It’s something,” says Wilson. “I’m sure you’ll turn it into a weapon or rip it apart and use the pieces as bargaining chips, so it can’t be totally useless. What are they giving you for the pain?”
“Nothing,” says House, pulling the cube toward him.
“I doubt that.”
“As good as nothing. Although they did put me out the first few days.”
Wilson leans back in his chair and rubs his neck.
“You got any cigarettes?” House says.
“No.”
“Smoking helps. I’ve been bumming off some of the guys, but I’d rather have my own.”
“I’ll bring you some in a couple days.”
House tries to twist the cube, but he has no power in his hands. Wilson sees them tremble.
Mordida (Bite)
You move across the floor together, and when you stop with one foot in front of you, he slides one of his alongside yours, legs forming a V and too much space between your hearts. His other foot plants itself beside yours; he has you trapped for a split second. Or you’re dividing him. And it’s too close, too much. You could break each other at the same time.
Wilson brings a pack of Marlboro Lights the following Monday.
“It’s a sad commentary on your life that you have nothing better to do than pay visits to the funny farm,” says House. He looks a little better. More bored. That’s always a good sign.
“Not my fault you monopolized my life,” says Wilson. House opens the pack of cigarettes, and Wilson hands him a lighter without being asked.
“Not my fault all the other people you’ve ever known suck. What kind of a self-respecting, red-blooded man buys Lights?”
“I want to see how much effort it takes on my part to make you look like someone’s bitch waiting to happen.”
“Dude,” says House. “I told you. Not prison. The guys in here don’t even remember how their dicks work.”
Wilson takes the lighter back.
“They’re not going to let you keep this,” he says.
House blows out a mouthful of smoke, and Wilson doesn’t flinch.
“I still don’t get it,” says House.
“What?”
“Why you’re here.”
Wilson blinks at him.
“Are we really going to have this conversation now?”
“Unless you really don’t have anything better to do,” says House, holding the cigarette in between two fingers, near his face. “In which case, you’re not here out of a genuine desire to comfort me, and the gesture is therefore meaningless. Or the opposite’s true - and you not having anything better to do is a testament to the significance of our relationship based on the fact that it’s the only you’ve got that isn’t crap.”
Wilson sighs and rubs his forehead.
“I’m here because I’m your friend,” he says. “And friends do this sort of thing.”
“You think I’d be here if you were in my place?”
“Yes,” says Wilson. “Because our relationship is definitely the only one you’ve got that isn’t crap.”
Corte (Cut)
You lean into him hard, mid-stride, and he anticipates: moves his leg back to make room for yours, and you throw yourself entirely into that lunge, back leg stretched out behind you, against his forward. Arching, head flung back, and he holds you up. You know he won’t drop you, won’t even let you sink a little, because this is what you do. And he doesn’t fail at what you do. He picks up the walk again, but you lunge to the side, taking him with you, bodies the same.
Wilson decides not to visit again until next week, but on Friday night, Mayfield calls him while he’s in the middle of making himself dinner.
They found House lying in his bed, overdosed on God knows what. Got to him in time, but they thought they ought to let Wilson know, since no other emergency contacts are listed in House’s file.
Wilson leaves the raw chicken in its dish on the counter and stumbles over himself on the way to his Volvo. He runs up the steps to Mayfield’s front entrance, runs down the hall to the reception desk and doesn’t hear himself ask for House, runs to the elevator and when reaches the right floor, runs for the nearest guy in a white coat.
House is in a straight jacket, lying on his side in bed. He looks at Wilson with eyes at half-mast, and Wilson huffs, out of breath, looking at him.
“How did you?” Wilson says. “How the hell did you-House! What did you do?”
“Not dealing with you right now,” says House, eyes closed.
“Were you serious? Were you seriously trying to-was this another one of your stupid stunts or did you really try to-”
“How many psych patients really want to take their meds?”
Wilson gapes at him.
“I-I-I can’t believe you.”
“You can’t be that surprised.”
Wilson sits down in the chair next to House’s bed because he doesn’t trust his legs for much longer. He leans his elbows on his knees and buries his face in his hands. They don’t speak for a minute. Wilson looks back at House.
“Why?” he says, talking with his hands. “You’re getting clean, the worst part’s almost over. You were fine.”
“I’ve lost my mind, Wilson.”
House says it flat, quiet. Wilson stares at him.
“It’s the Vicodin,” he says. “House, your mind-it’ll come back. Christ, even if it doesn’t, it’s not worth dying over.”
“It’s all I have.”
“No. It’s not.”
House opens his eyes and meets Wilson’s gaze. Wilson’s never seen that far into House, he doesn’t register the shock right away.
Gancho (Hook)
He turns you away from him, but you flip your leg over his and bend it up as he bends his, hooking at the knees. Hands so tight together, you don’t know if you’re trying to pull apart or get even closer, get inside, swallow each other whole. You drop your legs, pick them up again, hook. You want to push him away, so you grip him tighter. And he grips back, eyes like Arctic water on your bare skin, a cold burn, all the extremes at once.
“Get out,” House says.
“No.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“House. There’s nothing I don’t know about you.”
“I’m not going to defend my actions to you. This is my life. I can end it if I want to.”
“You’re a selfish prick,” says Wilson. “I didn’t get you into this place so you could kill yourself a different way.”
“Do you want a thank you? Is that what you’re waiting for? I now owe the rest of my life to the benevolent Saint James-”
“This is about you! This is about fixing the wreck you created for yourself! If you ever want to have a life again, a real life, you need to stay here and get clean.”
“I don’t have a life without my job, Wilson!” House yells. His eyes are a brilliant, desperate blue, and Wilson faces them with a courage no one else has ever had. The two men stare, until Wilson sees House’s unshed tears glistening. Wilson can’t truthfully argue with him; he knows he can’t. He won’t say anything more.
He goes from his chair down on both knees, kneeling at the bedside, and takes House in both his arms. They don’t do this, but it’s the only thing Wilson can think of. House can’t push him away or hug back, buckled into the straight jacket, so he lies there, cradled in Wilson. Wilson doesn’t move, even when his knees start to hurt, and he doesn’t say anything while House cries into his jacket.
Abrazo (Embrace)
He lets you go and storms across the floor, hands fisted at his sides, shoulders snarling. His black shoes shine and bite at the floor, but he stops - his back to you. And you step, step, step - rise up on your front leg and fold both arms around him, hands on his chest, your head on the slope of his back. You feel him whip his head to one side, and you press yourself against him, left leg raised and folded against his side. He touches your knee, a brief tenderness, then turns on you as you back away. He grabs you and pulls, chest to chest; he has you down on one knee. And you look and look into each other, hands itching to slap, punch, grip, caress. You stand back up and he turns your around, one arm wrapped around your waist. Face against the back of your neck. You move together, all legs. You try to leave him, but he holds on with both hands and keeps you. God damn it, you think. God damn you. Bodies playing war to contain the passion.
Rated: PG 13
Part: 1/1
Characters: House, Wilson
Pairings: None.
Summary: A look at the friendship between House and Wilson through the lens of tango. No slash intended. Sensual friendship.
Notes: Spoilers for S5 season finale, "Both Sides Now."
No idea why I decided to rewrite this idea from several years ago when I should be working on a shitload of original fiction/nonfiction -- but what the hell.
Tango: el Pasion de Amistad
by Marie S. Crosswell
Abrazo (Embrace)
Arms around each other, eyes searing into soul. Hips against hips. One bended knee. Back arched a little, chest toward the lead’s. Hands tight together. The need to devour each other.
Wilson doesn’t move, as House walks into Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital. He watches the other man go, and it isn’t anything new: House leaving him alone. But Wilson’s left enough times of his own. They don’t hold it against each other anymore.
He doesn’t expect House to turn back and look at him like that. He can see those blue eyes no matter how far away, and he’s surprised when he feels his throat close, his eyes sting, his face tighten into a protective, failed smile.
In that moment, Wilson feels the urge to run for House, so intense his belly clenches with a cross between pain and nausea. He wants to snatch House away from those strangers and make a run for it, drive and never look back.
The door shuts before Wilson can move, and House disappears. Wilson stands there a little longer, beneath an infinite, unforgiving sky. He stares and stares, as if enough patience will bring House back.
Cruce (Cross)
Step back, step back, one leg against the other. He leads you blind, and you don’t question. Silenced by that look. Step back, step back, cross. You move together.
“Don’t call,” says Cuddy, when she and Wilson go back to work on Monday. “Give it a week, at least. Wait for him to call.”
She’s standing half out, half in Wilson’s office doorway. He peers at her from where he sits at his desk and nods.
“He has to do this on his own,” she says.
Wilson knows. He hates it anyway. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday goes by. Nothing’s changed besides House’s absence from PPTH, but Wilson hasn’t been this lonely since Amber died. On Thursday, his office swept in dusk, he sits at his desk with his face in both hands and takes a deep breath. He tries to imagine what stage of detox House must be in, stops himself after he realizes that will only exacerbate his own stress.
He gets up and leaves his office, decides to go for a walk, get some air - but stops in front of House’s name. Thirteen and Taub are gone, and House’s two rooms are empty.
Wilson checks to make sure no one’s watching him, before going into House’s office. He sits in his best friend’s chair, lays both his hands on the desk as if he’s touching a dead man’s things.
When Wilson fled, House pursued. Push, push, push, until he had Wilson against the wall. Until Wilson couldn’t breathe, pinned there between “hard” and “ruthless.” House slamming him against that wall.
“Because no one can take away what you no longer have.”
Now, it’s Wilson’s turn to lead.
Giro (Turn)
You move in circles. He steers you but stays stills - the sun, burning too hot, but you look anyway until he is all you see. You revolve around him. You let him move you. You both know you don’t have a choice. He turns you and turns you, and the only reason you don’t get dizzy is because he’s your unmoving focal point.
House calls on Sunday. Wilson’s home, watching a television show he doesn’t care about and drinking a beer, delivery pizza only half eaten in the box on the coffee table. He’ll probably throw out the leftovers in the morning.
“Of course, you call collect,” he says, as soon as he picks up the phone.
“I have to make up for all the lunches you’re not buying me while I’m in here,” says House. Wilson smiles at that, only because he knows House won’t see.
“Is this your one phone call a week?”
“I’m in the nut house, Wilson, not prison.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Less rape, more art. What’s on TV?”
“It’s Sunday.”
“Point.”
They quit for a moment, and Wilson isn’t paying attention to the TV, just House - the silence as treasured as the words. He waits for House to breathe, but that never comes.
“My, God,” House says. “I can hear you brooding from over here.”
Wilson makes a face and sips his Heineken.
“I’m not brooding,” he says.
“You brood.”
“You brood.”
“Yeah, but I look cool when I do it. You just look pathetic.”
Wilson thinks he hears a tapping noise on House’s end, probably some guy knocking to tell House his phone time is up. House doesn’t pause.
“Drinking, watching mindless television, you probably ordered some crappy pizza because that makes you feel worse. Few more beers and you’ll be ready to cry through a Dave Brubeck album in the dark.”
“Trust me, I’m getting through the pain of actually eating the chips I buy at lunch.”
“Trying to figure out what else you could’ve done, stewing in guilt-”
Wilson hears the tapping noise again, and House stops.
“Visiting hours are Monday through Thursday from six to nine,” he says. He hangs up before Wilson can answer, and Wilson sets his cell phone down on the couch next to him.
The warm swell House’s voice pulled over him withdraws like the tide, leaving him colder than he was before.
Boleo (Whip)
He holds you close, hand strong on your back, and you are his mirror. He tells you where to go and how to go there, and you don’t think. You go. But at the last minute, he changes direction, and you sense it one second too late. You jerk around to catch up, looking at him, asking without asking why he did that. And he looks at you and answers without answering: trust me.
Wilson doesn’t visit until Thursday night. He shakes every pen he writes with from Monday to Thursday and bounces his right leg twice as fast and twice as often, but he tells himself that he should appear as calm and well-adjusted as possible. He doesn’t hear from House again between the Sunday night phone call and his Thursday night visit. He doesn’t call to let House know he’s coming either.
Some part of Wilson expects House to meet him in the visiting room with a smile on his face. Instead, House looks half-dead, and Wilson feels a little sick watching him wheel himself toward their table. Wilson waits for him standing up and doesn’t sit until House parks across from him. House doesn’t look at him right away, catches his breath, and Wilson doesn’t interrupt.
“Didn’t think you’d be here this soon,” House says.
“It’s been almost two weeks,” says Wilson.
“Thought you would want to wait for the worst to be over.”
“How long do you think it’ll take?”
House raises an eyebrow at him and licks his lips. Wilson looks down into his lap.
“Yeah, stupid question.”
“Did you bring me anything good? Porn, food, heroin?”
Wilson shakes his head.
“This isn’t Princeton-Plainsboro. These guys have no sense of humor.”
“I didn’t think any place was beyond Jimmy Wilson’s amazing powers of manipulation. I was counting on you.”
Wilson reaches into his bag for something. He sets a rubix cube on the table between him and House. House rolls his eyes, scoffs, and frowns, but Wilson catches a twitch at the corners of his mouth.
“Oh, come on,” House says. “Those stopped being fun when I was twelve.”
“It’s something,” says Wilson. “I’m sure you’ll turn it into a weapon or rip it apart and use the pieces as bargaining chips, so it can’t be totally useless. What are they giving you for the pain?”
“Nothing,” says House, pulling the cube toward him.
“I doubt that.”
“As good as nothing. Although they did put me out the first few days.”
Wilson leans back in his chair and rubs his neck.
“You got any cigarettes?” House says.
“No.”
“Smoking helps. I’ve been bumming off some of the guys, but I’d rather have my own.”
“I’ll bring you some in a couple days.”
House tries to twist the cube, but he has no power in his hands. Wilson sees them tremble.
Mordida (Bite)
You move across the floor together, and when you stop with one foot in front of you, he slides one of his alongside yours, legs forming a V and too much space between your hearts. His other foot plants itself beside yours; he has you trapped for a split second. Or you’re dividing him. And it’s too close, too much. You could break each other at the same time.
Wilson brings a pack of Marlboro Lights the following Monday.
“It’s a sad commentary on your life that you have nothing better to do than pay visits to the funny farm,” says House. He looks a little better. More bored. That’s always a good sign.
“Not my fault you monopolized my life,” says Wilson. House opens the pack of cigarettes, and Wilson hands him a lighter without being asked.
“Not my fault all the other people you’ve ever known suck. What kind of a self-respecting, red-blooded man buys Lights?”
“I want to see how much effort it takes on my part to make you look like someone’s bitch waiting to happen.”
“Dude,” says House. “I told you. Not prison. The guys in here don’t even remember how their dicks work.”
Wilson takes the lighter back.
“They’re not going to let you keep this,” he says.
House blows out a mouthful of smoke, and Wilson doesn’t flinch.
“I still don’t get it,” says House.
“What?”
“Why you’re here.”
Wilson blinks at him.
“Are we really going to have this conversation now?”
“Unless you really don’t have anything better to do,” says House, holding the cigarette in between two fingers, near his face. “In which case, you’re not here out of a genuine desire to comfort me, and the gesture is therefore meaningless. Or the opposite’s true - and you not having anything better to do is a testament to the significance of our relationship based on the fact that it’s the only you’ve got that isn’t crap.”
Wilson sighs and rubs his forehead.
“I’m here because I’m your friend,” he says. “And friends do this sort of thing.”
“You think I’d be here if you were in my place?”
“Yes,” says Wilson. “Because our relationship is definitely the only one you’ve got that isn’t crap.”
Corte (Cut)
You lean into him hard, mid-stride, and he anticipates: moves his leg back to make room for yours, and you throw yourself entirely into that lunge, back leg stretched out behind you, against his forward. Arching, head flung back, and he holds you up. You know he won’t drop you, won’t even let you sink a little, because this is what you do. And he doesn’t fail at what you do. He picks up the walk again, but you lunge to the side, taking him with you, bodies the same.
Wilson decides not to visit again until next week, but on Friday night, Mayfield calls him while he’s in the middle of making himself dinner.
They found House lying in his bed, overdosed on God knows what. Got to him in time, but they thought they ought to let Wilson know, since no other emergency contacts are listed in House’s file.
Wilson leaves the raw chicken in its dish on the counter and stumbles over himself on the way to his Volvo. He runs up the steps to Mayfield’s front entrance, runs down the hall to the reception desk and doesn’t hear himself ask for House, runs to the elevator and when reaches the right floor, runs for the nearest guy in a white coat.
House is in a straight jacket, lying on his side in bed. He looks at Wilson with eyes at half-mast, and Wilson huffs, out of breath, looking at him.
“How did you?” Wilson says. “How the hell did you-House! What did you do?”
“Not dealing with you right now,” says House, eyes closed.
“Were you serious? Were you seriously trying to-was this another one of your stupid stunts or did you really try to-”
“How many psych patients really want to take their meds?”
Wilson gapes at him.
“I-I-I can’t believe you.”
“You can’t be that surprised.”
Wilson sits down in the chair next to House’s bed because he doesn’t trust his legs for much longer. He leans his elbows on his knees and buries his face in his hands. They don’t speak for a minute. Wilson looks back at House.
“Why?” he says, talking with his hands. “You’re getting clean, the worst part’s almost over. You were fine.”
“I’ve lost my mind, Wilson.”
House says it flat, quiet. Wilson stares at him.
“It’s the Vicodin,” he says. “House, your mind-it’ll come back. Christ, even if it doesn’t, it’s not worth dying over.”
“It’s all I have.”
“No. It’s not.”
House opens his eyes and meets Wilson’s gaze. Wilson’s never seen that far into House, he doesn’t register the shock right away.
Gancho (Hook)
He turns you away from him, but you flip your leg over his and bend it up as he bends his, hooking at the knees. Hands so tight together, you don’t know if you’re trying to pull apart or get even closer, get inside, swallow each other whole. You drop your legs, pick them up again, hook. You want to push him away, so you grip him tighter. And he grips back, eyes like Arctic water on your bare skin, a cold burn, all the extremes at once.
“Get out,” House says.
“No.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“House. There’s nothing I don’t know about you.”
“I’m not going to defend my actions to you. This is my life. I can end it if I want to.”
“You’re a selfish prick,” says Wilson. “I didn’t get you into this place so you could kill yourself a different way.”
“Do you want a thank you? Is that what you’re waiting for? I now owe the rest of my life to the benevolent Saint James-”
“This is about you! This is about fixing the wreck you created for yourself! If you ever want to have a life again, a real life, you need to stay here and get clean.”
“I don’t have a life without my job, Wilson!” House yells. His eyes are a brilliant, desperate blue, and Wilson faces them with a courage no one else has ever had. The two men stare, until Wilson sees House’s unshed tears glistening. Wilson can’t truthfully argue with him; he knows he can’t. He won’t say anything more.
He goes from his chair down on both knees, kneeling at the bedside, and takes House in both his arms. They don’t do this, but it’s the only thing Wilson can think of. House can’t push him away or hug back, buckled into the straight jacket, so he lies there, cradled in Wilson. Wilson doesn’t move, even when his knees start to hurt, and he doesn’t say anything while House cries into his jacket.
Abrazo (Embrace)
He lets you go and storms across the floor, hands fisted at his sides, shoulders snarling. His black shoes shine and bite at the floor, but he stops - his back to you. And you step, step, step - rise up on your front leg and fold both arms around him, hands on his chest, your head on the slope of his back. You feel him whip his head to one side, and you press yourself against him, left leg raised and folded against his side. He touches your knee, a brief tenderness, then turns on you as you back away. He grabs you and pulls, chest to chest; he has you down on one knee. And you look and look into each other, hands itching to slap, punch, grip, caress. You stand back up and he turns your around, one arm wrapped around your waist. Face against the back of your neck. You move together, all legs. You try to leave him, but he holds on with both hands and keeps you. God damn it, you think. God damn you. Bodies playing war to contain the passion.