Halfwits (House/Wilson, R)

[daasgrrl]

Title: Halfwits
By:
daasgrrl
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: R
Word count: 3,500
Summary: Standard Half-Wit post-ep. So where the hell was Wilson, anyway? House needs to know.
Beta: Thanks very much to 
evila_elf for the super-speedy beta and extra prodding *g*
Notes: I woke up the morning after seeing Half-Wit thinking that I absolutely had to write a drabble about it. Except, not so much with the drabble *headdesk*. I hope this isn’t too rough - I wanted to get it out there before there were 100 post-eps with the same ideas. I may already be too late with this *g*. Inspired by the people on my f-list annoyed by Wilson’s virtual disappearance during the episode.

Halfwits 
House stepped up to the door of the bistro, turned the knob and gave it a little push. He only realized his mistake a moment later when he met with resistance, having been too distracted to register the outwards swing of the doors. As he moved back a little to give himself maneuvering room to pull, the other door opened and spilled a couple of guys in suits out onto the street, heading past him on his right. One of them muttered an apology as House shuffled back hurriedly to avoid getting knocked over. House caught the door deftly on the backswing, but the moment had already passed. He let it fall shut again, turning to watch the suits making their way down the street. He frowned as one of them laughed at something and the other clapped him on the back.

After another moment, he turned and kept walking, intending to circle the block, get back to the hospital and then home to his own apartment, his own piano. The whole reaching out thing clearly wasn't going to work. He just wasn't built like that, and he wasn't going to let Wilson and his stupid advice get to him. Who did he think he was, anyway, to talk about people and relationships and caring? If House tried really hard, maybe he too could end up with three ex-wives and a hotel room as a measure of his success. The way things had gone recently, maybe he could start off with Cameron and work his way up to Cuddy. Or maybe vice-versa; Cuddy wasn't getting any younger, after all.

By the time he reached his car, his mood had deteriorated further. Damn Wilson for putting the idea into his head in the first place, and damn himself for listening. Lately, everything between them had been wrong. House knew he was complicated, but Wilson had always seemed to know how to harmonize with his moods. Until the shooting. After that, everything between them had become harsh, discordant. He had thought Wilson had faith in his medical judgment, if nothing else; he had been wrong. He had thought he could rely on Wilson to have his back against Tritter; he had been wrong. He had thought the news that he had a year to live would send Wilson into a frenzy of compassion - useless, but enjoyable while it lasted. And he had been wrong about that, too. There had been nothing more than a single lame Frankenstein joke, followed by virtual indifference. And it had bothered him more than he wanted to admit. He had been tempted to join his team in the bistro rather than opting for Wilson's company only because he no longer knew what to expect from Wilson anymore. And that was the real problem he had with humanity. Unfortunately, there was only one way he could think of to get his answers.

"Start small," Wilson had advised, but House had never been one for half-measures.

***

The hotel corridors were warm and stuffy, and House had already removed his overcoat before he reached the room. Out of habit, he put his ear up to the door first, but could hear nothing, not even the television. Clearly another exciting evening in what passed for the Wilson residence. House stepped back a little and knocked sharply on the door, completely ignoring both the 'do not disturb' sign and the handy little switch with the bell on it. When Wilson answered, he wore a look of mild irritation which quickly changed to surprise, and then to a blandness that House found annoyingly difficult to read.

"House," he said flatly.

House inclined his head, and Wilson pulled the door the rest of the way open to let him in. He'd known where Wilson lived, but he hadn't gone so far as to visit before. It was pretty much what he would have expected - generic, neat, boring. The main sign of life was a stack of hospital files on the desk next to the reading lamp, and a magazine lying spread-eagled on the coffee table.

"Homey," he commented.

"So, why are you here?" Wilson said, when the door was shut. He had at least changed out of his work clothes; he was wearing a long-sleeved grey T-shirt and blue jeans, and his feet were bare. Stripped of the suit and tie he seemed a lot younger, but no less annoying. The cautious tone in his voice grated on House's nerves. For all his suggestions, he wasn't exactly going out of his way to make this easy.

"I thought it was because you'd invited me. Or were you expecting one of your many caring friends to drop by? In that case, I'd better leave before they all get here. I could get trampled in the rush.”

"I haven't got anything here you can get high on, if that's what you're after."

They knew each other too well; that was the problem, and although House knew that he was in part to blame, he sure as hell wasn't going to take full responsibility. This was exactly why it was stupid to spend time with people. The better they knew you, the more ammunition they had.

"Okay, this obviously isn't going to work either," he said, and turned to leave. However, Wilson's hand caught him on the arm before he could make it to the door.

"You're right, I'm sorry," Wilson said. When House turned to face him, he found the bland mask had slipped a little. There was a moment there when he could still have made it to the door, but the look in Wilson's eyes and the hand on his arm made him hesitate, and before he knew it Wilson had taken his coat and was draping it across a chair. "It's… good to see you. I'm just… surprised."

"I can tell," House muttered dryly. He sat down at Wilson's invitation, choosing the most comfortable looking of the guest chairs.

"Can I… get you a drink or something?" House shook his head in response, which seemed to leave Wilson at a loss as to what to do. He finally settled on the low table at the foot of the bed, and they stared at each other in silence for a long moment. It was a long way from the ease they used to have together.

"So… do you… want to go get that pizza?' Wilson said at last. There was another silence.

"You know, I'm curious," House said at last, ignoring him. "You're all about the caring, aren't you? In fact, you're almost as bad as Cameron, except not as pretty. So it's a strange thing. When everyone thought I was dying, they were all over me. I felt so loved." House invested this last with as much sarcasm as he could manage. "And yet you, my purported caring best friend, just seem to - puff - disappear." He accompanied this with an appropriate explosive hand gesture. "No hovering around my office with soothing homilies, no pathetic offers of counseling, not even a polite professional curiosity. Why is that?"

"So this is what this is about," Wilson said. "Look, you were kind of busy. I… didn't think you'd even notice."

"I noticed."

Wilson just sat and looked at him, his arms folded across his chest, then stared off into the distance.

"You know, when people do that, it almost always means they're about to lie," House commented.

"Fine," Wilson said, facing him again and unfolding his arms. "Well, first, I know what you're like. I figured all the pity would get old real fast."

House nodded. "It did."

"So does that answer your question?"

"Nope, because you said 'first', meaning, there's more."

"Second, I did have my own patients who needed me, and your prognosis was at least six months to a year, so I figured a day or two wouldn't make a difference."

"Nice," House said.

Wilson shrugged. "You had your entire team on it. I couldn't have done any better."

"But you would have tried. It's who you are. If it were anyone you knew, you would have tried. So there's definitely something else you're not telling me. "

"And third," Wilson continued, with resignation, "of course I got Chase to slip me copies of 'your' medical file as soon as Cameron got hold of it. Now, I don't exactly have a photographic memory for tumors, but a six-centimeter mass in the dorsal mid-brain? You don't see that every day, not even with a fake name imprinted on the scan. That kind of thing is fairly memorable, especially when the patient is still undergoing treatment at the hospital. Just ask Mister Wyland and his faithful, loving wife."

The conclusion wasn't pleasant, but House had to admit it all made sense. "You knew."

"The only question was why you'd done it, and I figured that if I let it go for long enough, I'd find out. Thanks for the diagnosis, by the way. If they end up divorced you can count it as a double victory for deception."

"You bastard."

"Why, what did you want me to do? Tell your team you were faking it and let you go ahead with whatever crackpot plan you had going? If they were a little distracted from your other case, you had only yourself to blame."

"Well, I've certainly learned my lesson," House snapped, standing up. "Why waste time caring about people when you can manipulate them?"

"That's good, coming from you." Wilson was instantly on his feet as well, matching him tone for tone. "I knew it. The only reason you came here was to solve your precious puzzle."

"I…" House shook his head, oddly stung by the accusation. Of course it was true, to some extent, but it wasn't fair. "I did want to know," he said at last. "But it was because I didn't understand why…" he trailed off.

Wilson's expression softened, just a little. "House, if I really thought you were dying, I'd be there for you, okay?"

"Like you were 'there for me' on Christmas Eve?" Rationally, he understood why Wilson had done what he did, but it still rankled with him.

"You weren't dying. But if you hadn't gone to rehab when you did, you might have."

"So that means either way, you owe me."

"How does that even make sense?"

House began pacing a little, mainly so he wouldn't have to look at Wilson any more than he had to. "If it turned out I really was dying, what would you do?"

"Why, are you intending to fake it again just to find out?"

House did his best to ignore the barb, and concentrated on his point. "When it comes down to it, we're all dying. Some of us a little more slowly than others. Therefore, I really am dying. I just don't know exactly when."

"Morbid, yet profound." Wilson rolled his eyes.

"But it's a valid point," House insisted. "So, what would you have done?"

It had started off as a rhetorical question, but House was starting to realize that he really did want to know. He didn't exactly understand why, but it was important, and Wilson's nonchalance was annoying him. He swung around to face Wilson again, punctuating with stabs of his cane.

"Now, see, Foreman went so far as to say he liked me, even though he was lying through his exceptionally white teeth. Chase gave me a hug, which was deeply moving, and Cameron kissed me, armed only with a syringe. Cuddy even went so far as to let me grope her ass, and that was the best of the lot." He graced Wilson with a mock leer.

"I can see why you wouldn't have wanted to disillusion them too soon." Wilson somehow managed to sound amused and disapproving at the same time. It was an improvement, at least.

"But you, you're my very bestest friend, as you keep telling me. So you have to see them or fold."

"Excellent reasoning, except that friendship isn't a poker game."

"Unless you're afraid to admit that you just don't have much of a hand." House frowned at him speculatively.

"Okay, House," Wilson said at last, putting his hands out, exasperated, placating. "Okay. I like you. And it's almost the truth. And to prove it, I'll even pay for the pizza. Everything, extra olives?"

He broke off to go over to the desk and rummage through a drawer, but House immediately moved to pluck the flyer out of his hand and throw it back on the desk. For just a moment, it had been there, like a fragment of forgotten music. Something. House had no idea what he was doing, only that he was definitely onto something, and he wasn't about to let Wilson distract him until he had figured it out.

"Very good. One down, three to go. Now I want the hug, if you think you can manage it." House deliberately phrased it as a challenge, hoping to keep Wilson's mind off the implications.

“You're not serious."

"You're always telling me to reach out and touch someone. Now I'm here, all needy like you wanted, what about you?"

"Fine. But put the cane down first," Wilson said.

"What, you think I'm going to hit you with it?"

"Right now, I really don't know what to think."

House complied, leaning it against the table, then showing his hands empty. "Waiting," he said.

After another incredulous look, Wilson moved forward and put his hands tentatively around House's shoulders, as if expecting to be violently rebuffed at any minute. It was a long way from Chase's hug; there was so much clear space between them that House felt that it barely qualified. He'd had more intimate contact with pushy clerks in menswear. House shuffled a little closer, and then very slowly brought his arms up around Wilson's waist. For a second it had been there, the something between them that used to fit together so well, two distinct parts creating one melody. He listened for it again in the warmth of Wilson's body, the cloth under his fingers, the steady rush of his breath. Wilson's arms tightened around him a little, and then he heard it. It was there, despite everything. And then he found himself holding on tightly, refusing to let go until the sudden rush of feeling had passed. Finally, he pushed Wilson away.

He would been a lot more pleased with how this was going if Wilson hadn't been staring at him like he'd suddenly grown an extra arm. One day, House was going to have to tell him how stupid it made him look. Maybe sooner.

"Not bad," House said, willing the shakiness from his voice with some effort. "Very sincere. I almost believed you. Now for the kiss."

"I would, but I'm not in need of a blood sample." The lightness in Wilson's words was somehow entirely at odds with the expression on his face.

"Then make up some other excuse."

"House."

"Unless you want to be outdone by Cameron."

"That's hardly the same thing. For a start, she's a… she."

"Very perceptive. But I thought you were all for equal opportunity. Or do you just say that to pick up?"

"House." Wilson was doing that weird thing with his face again, the thing he did whenever he wasn't sure whether House was being serious or not, and trying to keep his options open.

"You could pretend I really did have cancer if you wanted. I understand that's a turn-on for you."

That finally earned him a furious glare, and for a moment, House really thought he'd pushed too far. Then Wilson sighed and leaned forward and gave him a quick, completely innocuous peck on the cheek.

"There. Happy? I care. Can I order the pizza now? There's some horror marathon on cable later. Vampires, I think. And it'll take them at least an hour to deliver, not that room service is any faster most of the time."

There was no way he was getting away with that at this point. House cut through Wilson's ramblings with another kiss, a decent one this time, on the mouth. Or slightly indecent, depending on how you used the phrase.

"Okay. Really, did you take something?" Wilson said quietly, when he could speak.

It took some effort for House to clamp down on his irritation. He thought it had been a pretty good kiss, and should have been taken on its own merits. "If I had, do you think I'd ruin it by coming here?"

"It's just… you know. This really isn't… you."

"No, what you mean is that it isn't you. And if that's what you mean you should just come right out and say it. Or maybe what you're afraid to admit is that it's just easier to be lonely and miserable than to actually do anything about it. And I'm not talking about me."

Wilson took a step back and stared at him again. A flurry of emotions crossed his face too fast for House to decipher, which usually meant trouble. House lifted a hand in an attempt to forestall the beginnings of anything Wilson might have to say.

"Take a chance, you said," House insisted, sensing victory as Wilson opened his mouth and then shut it again. "And look, here I am. Or does your ever-helpful advice only go one way?"

"You realize this isn't quite what I meant," Wilson said. He seemed to be looking for something, but House had no idea what. But eventually he seemed to find it, because after a long pause, he did lean in to kiss House again, and House realized he hadn't actually been trying the last time. His mouth wasn't as soft and gentle as Cameron's, and neither was his demeanor. He kissed as though taking up House's challenge, accepting everything House gave and throwing it right back at him. House shut his eyes and fought back until he was breathless.

"Now, where were you up to?" Wilson was panting a little as he pulled back, but his eyes were still guarded.

"I can't remember," House said with complete seriousness, which for some inexplicable reason made Wilson laugh. It didn't really matter. He was finding it hard to focus, anyway. For some strange reason he was thinking of music again, the beginnings of his half-finished composition playing in his head.

"Cuddy," Wilson said, rudely interrupting his flow.

"Right," House said.

This time Wilson's mouth was a little gentler, and House moved in close enough to run his hands over Wilson's back and down to his ass, stroking a little as he went. Then he squeezed, hard, enjoying the way Wilson squirmed under his touch. It was nice when everything was simply a matter of touch and pressure and timing.

"The comparison is just a little disappointing," he murmured into Wilson's ear, and felt Wilson smile against him.

"She turned you down, didn't she?"

"No," House said. "In fact, I had to pry her off me."

"Sure you did," Wilson said.

Then his hands slipped beneath the lower edge of House's shirt and then his T-shirt, skimming up his chest, skin against skin. House bit back a gasp as Wilson moved back in again, pressing his hips against him firmly enough for House to feel the not insignificant results of all the kissing and the touching. When he had started out, he had wanted to goad Wilson a little, shake him up, but he hadn't exactly known what he had been after. Or maybe he just hadn't been prepared to admit it. Now he wondered why it had taken them so long. As though in answer to his thoughts, one of Wilson's hands trailed its way down to the front of House's jeans, only brushing him lightly, but the touch sent a shiver throughout his entire body.

"So, you going to… do something about that?" House managed.

"If the answer is yes, do I get to keep the 'best friend' title?"

"If the answer is yes, you can have whatever title you want."

"'Master' would be nice."

"Don't push it."

Wilson grinned, but House had had enough. Awkwardly, he began edging them closer to the bed, stripping off shoes, shirt and T-shirt on the way, tugging at Wilson's T-shirt until he did the same. When they were lying side by side, he ran the flat of his hand across Wilson's chest, and leaned over to kiss him once more.

"You know, this could almost work," he said out loud, fiddling with the button and zip on Wilson's jeans.

"What?" Wilson muttered, distracted with reciprocating.

"Think of it as a kind of… clinical trial. If you don't want me looking for ways to get high, you have to offer me a program of… alternative therapy."

He finally managed to get his hand where he wanted it, although unfortunately it was not quite enough to shut Wilson up entirely.

"That's… the most romantic thing I've ever heard."

"And I'm expecting pizza and vampires later, too."

Wilson was stroking him now, and it was increasingly hard to concentrate, but he knew, somehow, that it would be okay. He knew it because of the look in Wilson's eyes and the eagerness of Wilson's hands, but it was also in the music now fading away in the recesses of his mind, the sounds of his own composition being played back to him at last. Some things were only possible when two halves worked in unison. Maybe this ending wouldn't turn out anywhere near as perfectly, but at least the thing left incomplete between them for too many years would finally be finished.