Part Fifteen
First, sorry for the delay. I won't bore everyone explaining where I was, but I can promise future updates to be nice and regular again. I hope people are still following the story!
Secondly: I have no beta, and this new chapter is essentially one giant scene, so am not sure about it. I didn't know how it was going to play out, so I just sat down and wrote it and ended up with this, so I hope it flows ok and seems credible. H & W both basically want answers, and I don't know that either of them get any, but I hope it basically makes sense to anyone who reads it. Please let me know what you think, good or bad.
Anyway -
The apartment was silent when House finally returned. It felt strangely empty.
All the lights had been switched off, and there was no evidence that Cuddy had stopped by like she’d promised. House poked around the debris in the kitchen before ducking his head into the bathroom, half expecting to see Wilson prostrate on a water-slick floor. House could remember his first week at home after the infarction with merciless clarity, but it seemed that Wilson was, in certain ways, a smarter cripple than him. He’d even left the toilet seat down.
To his annoyance, House found himself quietly nudging the bedroom door open. And what else had he expected? Wilson was asleep on his bed, scowling comically into the pillow. He’d fallen asleep on top of the bedclothes, but someone had drawn a spare blanket over him, and House realised that Cuddy must have visited after all. He felt a smirk uncurl in the darkness. Interesting.
House anticipated the forthcoming interrogation with a rising bubble of glee, until he remembered that Wilson might not be talking to him. His suitcase hadn’t been packed, but that didn’t mean anything. If Wilson wasn’t incapable of packing without pressing his socks first, he’d probably be gone by now. House had finally given him the perfect get-out.
He shut the door with a soft click and stood in the hallway, unsure of what to do next. Which seemed unfair. It was his damn apartment.
He found himself in front of the tv, volume turned down low, trying to distract himself by diagnosing the guests on Jerry Springer. After his fifth verdict of psychosis he gave up, poured himself a scotch and stared up at the spider scuttling around his ceiling, spinning its web wider and wider across the plaster.
Wilson was going to wake up, and then he was going to leave. There was nothing House could bring himself to say that could undo it. He shut his eyes, and tried to let the darkness smooth down the thoughts in his brain and drift away in sleep.
What happened next, he realised uncomfortably, was almost entirely up to him.
Fuck.
Wilson drifted awake and managed to peel his eyes open. His brain felt like it had been wrapped in a thick grey blanket. After a few seconds of blinking owlishly at the dent his face had left in the bedclothes, he remembered that he had passed out in front of Cuddy. He stared at the clean dressing on his side and buried his face into the pillow in horror. Perfect. He just hoped he hadn’t drooled on the pillow.
After a muted growl into the cotton that did absolutely nothing to exorcise his feelings, he dragged himself upright and stared at the door. House must be back by now, and his morning meds were still on the counter in the kitchen. And he wasn’t going to hide out in the bedroom and suffer quietly, he decided, when House was the bastard. It was surprisingly easy to recapture his sang-froid, and when he opened the door and started down the hallway, he was practically exuding ice. He walked straight past House’s questioning glance from the couch and snatched the cereal box off the counter.
His meds had moved from their previous position on the tabletop, and Wilson wondered if Cuddy had decided on an extra ingredient in his soup. At the same moment that he realised someone had helpfully screwed the lid back on to his stupid childproof bottle, he heard a step behind him, and House loomed over his shoulder.
Wilson summoned his coldest stare and turned around. House flicked his gaze down to the sealed bottle, and then back up to Wilson’s taut expression, and of course there was the barest hint of a smirk twitching the corner of his mouth. Wilson’s glare could have cracked glass.
“Hilarious,” he snapped.
House reached for the bottle. “Luckily, I’m not the sort of man who would arbitrarily withhold pain meds from a patient.” He tipped two pills into his palm, and despite his tone, he extended his hand towards Wilson with an almost nervous expression on his face. Wilson ignored it, and grabbed a single pill. “You don’t get bonus points for not finishing your scrip,” House snarled. He’d stumped halfway back across the living room before he seemed to catch himself, and paused in the centre of the room, bouncing his cane up and down on the floor. Wilson swallowed the tablet and waited.
“So, . . . Are you moving out?” House’s eyes were averted, fixed on the bobbing rubber tip of his cane. It was several seconds before his eyes flashed up to Wilson’s face. And it really shouldn’t be anything like enough, those little tells; the forcedly casual tone that House couldn’t quite carry off, but it was enough that Wilson felt the fury bunching in his muscles begin to ebb.
“I . . . don’t know,” he admitted. House nodded.
“I guess . . . you want to talk,” he muttered after the seconds had stretched on for long enough, and the mixture of dread and disgust in his voice made Wilson glare at him.
“Is there really any point? I’m sure there’s nothing left to say that you haven’t already found out. I’m sure you’ve already got all the relevant details written out on your whiteboard somewhere. Would you have shown any interest in this guy if he hadn’t tried to kill me?!” Wilson’s free hand automatically came up to rest on his hip. “I bet you couldn’t wait to get in there and have a heart to heart!”
House rolled his eyes theatrically. “Oh, for --”
“Of course,” interrupted Wilson, now rushing along helplessly on a wave of resentment, “you couldn’t just leave it, when it must have been so interesting for you to find out every little thing. I’m sure you had fun, speaking to the person who -- ” He stopped, and like a wolf scenting weakness, House’s eyes snapped back to his face.
“You think I’ve been chatting to Harvey,” House declared, as if this had only just been established.
“Yes!” shouted Wilson. He gripped the counter in frustration, trying to let the silence fill him up. “My family, my wives; you’ve already interrogated them. Why the hell would this be any different?”
“Yeah, I just love talking about you nearly dying. I’m all shook up the other guys got away, robbed me of my fun. Of course it’s different, you moron!” They glared at each other for a few seconds, and then House scrubbed his hand across his forehead and said, in a patronisingly calm voice; “I didn’t chat to him. I haven’t even met him. There was no social element involved. I just . . . diagnosed him.”
“With what? A peanut allergy?” snapped Wilson. At some point during the argument House had moved closer, and now they were only a couple of feet apart, a sulky, awkward space between them.
“Actually, we haven’t figured out the cause of the anaphylaxis yet,” muttered House, sounding irked. Wilson glowered at him. “He was sick! Actually sick!”
“Oh, well that explains it. You must have been brimming with concern.”
“I’ve never even seen the damn guy! I couldn’t give a crap about him!” House jabbed his cane at him and went on the offensive; “You just don’t want to talk about this, so you keep coming up with crap that --”
“We don’t need to talk about this because you’ve already found everything out!”
“Yeah. You’re right. Clearly everything’s solved,” said House, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He looked as furious as Wilson now, which he definitely had no right to do, and Wilson was just about to tell him so when a bolt of pain lanced through his shoulder like an electric wire and he doubled over.
“Ah, - God - !” A hand caught him before he could fall, and held him up as a white-hot blade sliced down his arm.
“Wilson, - what -?”
“Ah . .” Wilson really couldn’t say anything else; he didn’t know how he was still hanging above the floor; couldn’t feel the body supporting his weight. The world was white and screaming; the pain hit with the blinding intensity of a camera flash, and then, just as suddenly, it was gone, leaving him numb and dazed in its afterglow.
He was being steered to the sofa, and Wilson remembered House; his death grip on Wilson’s good arm and his tense voice from somewhere near his ear, telling him to sit down.
“No, . . . it’s, - ok now,” he gasped, trying to refocus, and he attempted to recoil and stand by himself.
“Sit down,” ordered House, one hand still clenched unrelentingly on his bicep, and something suddenly swiped his feet out from under him and the hand pushed backwards, and with a gentle bump Wilson was sitting on the couch.
“House - !” He tried to sound indignant, but only managed stunned. House was crouched forwards and studying him intently, having extracted the cane from Wilson’s ankles.
“What happened?”
“It’s fine,” mumbled Wilson. His legs were shaking. House muttered something from above his head and vanished, and Wilson took the opportunity to wipe his eyes and blink his vision back into focus.
A glass of water pressed into his hand, and House was back. “Shoulder?”
“It was just -- It just hurt for a second,” he said. “I must have jarred it. It’s fine now.”
“Shooting pain?”
“House, I know what neuropathic - ”
“What kind of pain?”
“Yes, shooting pain! It’s fine. It’s gone.”
House watched him for a moment, as if Wilson was attempting some sort of elaborate cover-up, before sinking onto the couch. His hand moved in tight circles over his thigh, and Wilson wondered if he’d strained his leg keeping him from collapsing on the floor. Given House’s expression, he decided not to ask.
They sat in silence, House resting his forehead on the handle of his cane. He looked tense and pale. Hell, he probably looked worse than Wilson did, and Wilson felt a small (ridiculous) pang of guilt. He turned back to staring at the wall ahead, when House finally cleared his throat.
“I never read the police report,” he said quietly. "I have pretty much no idea what happened.” It sounded as if it was paining House to admit it. “The woman - the cop - she mentioned something about the charges at the hospital. Hate crime. I figured . . .” Wilson stared at him. “You're right. I wanted to know. But -- I don’t.” House met his gaze. His eyes were wide and anxious.
It felt like the hand that had been clenched around Wilson’s heart had suddenly let go; suddenly its fingers were uncurling, and he could breathe again. Whatever he wanted to say, or share, was still his; still private, and he could draw walls back around it if he liked. He could still decide.
And House, . . . really, it shouldn’t change anything, but it did, a little. Of course it was typical that House didn’t mention this until now -- but he was here; edgy and hating it, and he hadn’t bolted. That was something. Wilson didn’t want --
He just needed something to work with. Questioning House was like tap-dancing on landmines: hit the wrong spot, and everything would be over.
Tread carefully, Wilson decided, and just maybe, he’d be able to steer them safely forwards, because God knows, House certainly couldn’t manage it.
“Why didn’t you just -- tell me that?”
House continued to stare the tips of his shoes, twisting his cane between his hands. Maybe House had some ingrained aversion to admitting that he didn’t know something, mused Wilson in vexation. Or did he just enjoy seeing Wilson furious? He didn’t look like the past twenty-four hours had been much fun for him either, and Wilson suddenly remembered his conversation last night. “Cuddy said you didn’t want to take his case?”
House looked immediately irritated at this outside interference. “This has nothing to do with Cuddy,” he snapped. “She gave me a choice, and I chose this. Cuddy has no control over my actions.”
Yeah. If it were left up to House, they’d definitely be sunk.
“But you - didn’t want to?” pushed Wilson, and some distant part of him was watching and marvelling at how controlled he felt now, and how in control, while House was practically squirming like a schoolboy in his seat.
“ . . . No,” House admitted finally, almost earnestly, to the living room floor. “I didn’t --” He trailed off again, biting his lip, while Wilson watched. House glanced up at his scrutiny, and cast him a resentful look.
“If you didn’t want to . . .” Wilson was genuinely perplexed. “It’s you, so it could hardly have been an ethical dilemma. Why the hell did you?” House frowned. Cue diversionary tactics, thought Wilson.
“I didn’t mean for you to find out like that. I was going to tell you - ”
“Why did you take the case?”
“ - and then Cameron decided -”
“Wow.” House looked up sharply.
“What?”
“You, avoiding this. You’re -- actually upset about this, aren’t you?” House got quickly to his feet, clearly irritated by the turn the conversation was taking.
“And suddenly you’re Mr. Happy.” He pointed his cane in accusation. “What happened to your stance yesterday evening? Nothing’s changed, and suddenly I’m worth talking to again?”
“You don’t think anger was a reasonable response to the fact you’ve been secretly treating the man who tried to kill me?!”
“Sure, if that was what you were pissed about, rather than the fact you thought I’d figured out your secret! I’m just trying to explain how you suddenly go from -- ”
“No, the only thing you have to explain is what the hell you were doing!” Wilson's voice was suddenly very loud, and House actually looked shocked, but he didn't care. “You’re the one treating him!”
Shocked, and cornered. House didn’t even try to say anything.
Wilson buried his head in his hand. “Fine. Don’t. Just keep on analysing me and doing whatever the hell you want. If you don’t think this matters -- ”
“It does.” House spoke so quietly Wilson had to lift his head to check he’d heard correctly. “I don’t - ” He sighed in frustration, and seemed to steel himself. “I know this was, . . . important. I don’t want you to think - ”
“You don’t care what people think,” said Wilson automatically.
“Fine,” retorted House, “then I want you to know that I know this was a big deal. I didn’t just take the case to fuck with you, ok? I don’t get any extra satisfaction because this guy tried to --” He stopped, apparently unable to continue. “I’m sorry, ok?” he snapped finally. “I should have told you.”
Wilson stared at him, because he couldn’t really think of anything to say, or decide whether he was still furious or not. House sank into a chair.
“Why did you move back in with me?”
“Because . . . You offered,” said Wilson flatly. It was fairly obvious.
“Yes, I did. But the reason you accepted was because you want to talk about this.”
“That’s crap!” said Wilson, incredulous. “What, suddenly you want me to start emoting? Just so that you can ignore me, or tell me to go to hell?”
“I didn’t say I wanted to listen,” said House irritably. “I said you needed to tell me, and here I am.”
“Right," said Wilson. "You want me to discuss my feelings.”
“No. As far as I’m concerned, the best thing you could do is file the whole thing away under ‘shit happens’ and move on,” said House. “Lie about what happened, that’s fine. It’s smart. Forget all about it.”
“Why do I get the feeling there’s a ‘but’ rapidly approaching?”
“But don’t pretend to yourself! You’re not an idiot. Why the hell haven’t you told the cops what really happened?”
“I told them -”
House shook his head and leaned forward, completely serious. “You’re letting Harvey get off lightly because you don’t want to face up to the fact that people are bastards.”
“Oh trust me, I’ve known that one for a while,” muttered Wilson pointedly.
“Yeah, but you’re still nice to everybody, you still try with everybody, and this guy still wanted you dead.” Wilson flinched. Blood rushed to his face, and he had to fight the urge to do a House, and bolt for the next room; move himself as far away as possible from the words coming out of his friend’s mouth.
House took a breath, and tightened his grip on his cane. “He could get life in jail. You can do something, and you should.” House finally looked up at Wilson; and the barely controlled fury in his voice, in his eyes, almost made Wilson flinch away again; except that this time he knew it wasn’t aimed at him. It was for him. “He deserves it.”
Wilson felt something hot, like relief, or gratitude, shuddering through him. He wanted all this to be over now. But of course, it wasn't; so he stared at the coffee table and tried to let his brain unfocus. The couch sank down as House’s weight joined his own, and after a brief look at Wilson, as if to ask permission, House’s fingers were gently moving the immobiliser into place.
House cleared his throat. “Think - Think you can get off the couch without shrieking like a girl?”
Wilson swallowed and had to wait for a few seconds before answering. He could feel House bracing himself beside him, unsure if he’d been forgiven. Wilson wasn't sure, either.
“Do you really want to start bringing out the cripple jokes now? I’ve got six years worth stored up.” And House relaxed beside him, gave him a rare, genuine smile, and Wilson suddenly knew (without being sure why, or how, or even whether House deserved it) that what lay between them could be salvaged. That he wanted to try.
“Right. You’ve been going easy on me.” House tightened the strap by several notches. “The idea is to immobilise, for Christ’s sake. Who did this up?”
“Cuddy. I think I might have been unconscious.”
“I always knew she was a lousy doctor,” muttered House, urging Wilson back onto his feet.
“I think she was trying to go easy on me.” House snorted.
“Great idea. Look where that got you.” He took his arm off Wilson’s cautiously, as if expecting him to topple to the floor. “Alright now?”
It wasn't an excuse, or an explanation, or anything like enough to undo the strands of anger and bitterness still twisting through Wilson's brain - but the knowledge that, in his own twisted way, House gave a damn; that it wasn't just some game to him, . . . It was enough, right now, to outshine every other scattered objection in Wilson's head.
He risked trying to move, and nodded when he felt a twinge in his shoulder rather than a hot knife. "Yeah. It's ok."
House poked at the boxes disintegrating on the kitchen counter. “Pizza?”
“Cold pizza? You don’t have any other food?” And this was what Wilson wanted; to shrug back into their old, comfortable rhythm and pretend, just for a while, that they had never stepped out of it.
“I have beer.”
“Seriously, how can a grown man have absolutely no food in the house?”
“Oh yeah, this never gets old. Such fresh material. You should do stand up.” House spotted a half-empty jar of peanut butter and descended on it triumphantly. And then, because he was House, and he couldn’t leave anything - “So, are you going to talk to the cops?”
Wilson narrowed his eyes, but House was House again, confident in his reprieve, and Wilson couldn’t quite bring himself to be mad about that. “Sure.”
“Actually? You’re not going to stick your head back in the sand as soon as this conversation’s over?”
“You know, I actually already have a therapist,” said Wilson, and as he said it he was suddenly aware that he hadn’t actually thought of her since this entire mess began.
“Who you haven’t called. Maybe, . . .” House quirked an eyebrow in self-deprecation, and gave Wilson a small smirk. “Maybe you’d prefer some deeper guidance.” He started rifling through the cutlery drawer, leaving Wilson to stare at the top his head.
“. . . Ok.” Wilson nodded, and took a deep breath. “I’ll speak to the cops again.”
House paused, uncertain. “Good.” Wilson watched House frowning into the silverware, and silently counted to five, impressed despite himself. For House, that was reaching almost Buddhist levels of self-restraint.
“You don’t want to know what I’m going to tell them?”
House looked up, and Wilson found that he didn’t mind his curiosity when it was like this - a response, not an inquisition. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if you’re going to tell the cops?”
“I don’t know what to tell the cops,” clarified Wilson. He leaned against the wall and held out his hand for the jar. House grudgingly handed it over.
“You don’t remember?”
“No, I remember pretty much everything, I just - I just don’t know what it meant.” House tilted his head and eyed Wilson quizzically. “They said stuff and - I don’t know if they planned it, or it was just talk. I don’t know if it was personal. I mean, I don’t understand how it could be, but I don’t know if I was just some guy with a wallet, or . . .” He dug a spoon into the bottom of the jar and frowned. “I guess they could have followed me. It doesn’t really matter, I suppose.”
“You went to Temple?” Wilson nodded. “Why were you even there in the first place?” demanded House, looking personally affronted. Wilson rolled his eyes, but he felt strangely grateful that House wasn't holding back from being - well, House. This kind of belligerence was House's comfort zone, and it was perversely reassuring; almost enough to believe that whatever had just happened, had worked in someway towards fixing things.
“A person can choose to go to a service every now and then. It doesn’t signal the end of rational thought.”
“It signifies something. You haven’t been since you were a kid, and you suddenly decided to drop in? What, did you see Moses in your cereal?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what happened.”
“Well, something must have changed,” insisted House. “You know, most people turn to God after something like this happens. You must be thrilled that you got in beforehand. Look where that got you.”
Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you - blaming God now?”
“Why the hell did you go?”
“Why does it have to bother you that I did?”
“Now who’s avoiding the question? Religion bothers me. Stupidity bothers me.”
Wilson stared at the ceiling in resignation. “Were we actually having a conversation, or was this just laying the groundwork for one of your atheistic rants?”
“Did you think the clouds would part and your life would suddenly stop sucking?”
“Thought so. Carry on. I’m going to ignore you for while.”
“What? I was just saying you’re an idiot,” said House, as if presenting Wilson with a flawless syllogism.
“Thanks. Please continue insulting my religion. I really haven‘t had enough of that this week.”
“Yeah, it’s exactly the same,” said House, rolling his eyes. “I’m speaking out of concern. I don’t want you to start hanging out in the chapel, or giving all your money away to some lame charity.”
“You mean you don’t want to have to start buying your own meals and find someone else to play foosball with,” countered Wilson. “Religion isn’t actually toxic, House. Going to Temple one evening a year is not going to melt my brain.”
House snorted. “Sure. That’s what they all say, until, - ” He stopped, his eyes unfocusing. Wilson blinked.
“House?” House didn’t answer, suddenly miles away, watching some hidden light unveil.
“That’s it,” he murmured.
“Really? . . . Wait, what?!” House’s eyes flashed at him, and then he was grabbing his keys and heading towards the door. “What are you doing?”
House paused in the doorway. “I’ll be back soon,” he said, and he gave Wilson a wide, wicked grin. “I just realised I have God on my side. We’re going to solve a case.”