Devil's Playground- chapter 4
Title: Devil's Playground
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 4/12
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson (pre-slash)
Spoilers: Yes, for Wilson's Heart
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: House meets a strange man who promises House that he can help him to get his friendship with Wilson back on track.
"Doc?" The elderly man's slightly dazed eyes search Wilson's face. "What's in these cups?"
"Well," Wilson explains patiently for the third time, "this one holds orange juice, and you've got plain water in this one. You want a drink now?"
Mr. Godfrey looks anxious. "I don't know whether to or not. Do you think I should, Doc?"
"It wouldn't hurt." Wilson picks up the juice and guides the straw into his patient's mouth. Mr. Godfrey lifts a clumsy hand to try to assist him, but Wilson pushes it back down. "Steady, Mr. Godfrey. I've got it."
Cervical spondylosis and now, prostate cancer. His patient is frail. Taller than Wilson, he only weighs about one hundred and thirty pounds, and he's unable to stand up or grip with either of his hands. He can't hold a book or a fork or wash his own face. He can't do anything for himself and is totally bedridden, and he will be, for the rest of his life.
Wilson has to remain dispassionate when dealing with patients; he has to maintain a remote objectivity. But sometimes, it's hard. It's unbelievably hard.
His patient indicates that he's had enough to drink, and Wilson sets the cup down out of Mr. Godfrey's reach so that he can't accidentally knock it over. He wipes the old man's mouth. "Mr. Godfrey?" He waits until the wandering blue eyes lock onto his. "My night staff informed me that you had a bad night. Are you in a lot of pain?"
Mr. Godfrey lowers his gaze. "It's not too bad, Doc."
Wilson is dubious. "You need to tell me if you are. There's no need for you to suffer; I can increase your medication."
"No, I'm okay." Mr. Godfrey looks up at Wilson hopefully. "There is one thing you can do for me, if you would."
"Sure." Wilson is only too glad to help. "What is it?"
"My son. Could you try to get hold of him? He doesn't know I'm here."
Wilson freezes. You poor man, he thinks. You poor, poor man. "I..." For the first time ever, when dealing with a patient, words fail him. He stares down into the expectant, faded eyes and can't think of a single thing to say. Cold droplets trickle down between his shoulder blades. "I..."
"Doc? You alright?"
"Mr. Godfrey..." Wilson rubs circles on his temple. "I..."
"Of course he's alright," a soothing voice cuts in.
A hand fleetingly touches the small of Wilson's back, and he turns to see his assistant. Strange, the way Andrew always seems to turn up when he's at his most stressed; funny, how his body relaxes, just at the mere sight of him. "Andrew," he murmurs thankfully, in greeting.
"Doctor Wilson," Andrew says formally. He smiles down at Mr. Godfrey. "Stan," he says, "you mischief maker. You causing trouble with a capital T?"
"Not me, boy." Mr. Godfrey beams up at Andrew, genuinely happy to see him.
Andrew frowns playfully. "Hmmm. My eyes must have deceived me. And how are you, on this fine morning?"
"I'm not too bad, boy. Mustn't grumble."
"You're the only patient that doesn't," Andrew responds. "Hey, your back's a little twisted; you don't look particularly comfortable. I'll shift you over." Before Wilson can stop him, he single handedly moves Mr. Godfrey towards the center of the bed. He plumps up the patient's pillow and smooths the bottom sheet. "That's much better," he says.
"Don't let Cuddy see you do that," Wilson warns him. "You're not supposed to lift anybody on your own. You should ask a couple of the nurses to do it."
"Please." Andrew flexes his muscles, eyes twinkling. "Strong as an ox, me. Isn't that right, Stan? I think Doctor Wilson, here, frets too much. He's going to worry himself into an early grave. What do you reckon?"
"He is going gray." Mr. Godfrey eyes Wilson up and down carefully. "You know, I reckon you could be right."
Wilson swallows an outraged laugh. He watches curiously as Andrew perches himself on the edge of the hospital bed.
"Stan," Andrew says. "You were asking Doctor Wilson about your son?" Andrew raises an eyebrow.
"Colin?" Mr. Godfrey lifts his grizzled head as if expecting to see his son camped out on the chair beside him. "Lovely boy, he is," he says, voice cracking. "Makes me proud. He'd do anything for anyone." He looks confused. "Where is he? Did you manage to get hold of him?"
Andrew shakes his head slowly. "Colin died five years ago in a car accident. He died instantly. He suffered no pain at all. Do you remember that?"
"Died?" Mr. Godfrey has tears in his eyes. "My son's dead?"
"Yes," Andrew says softly. "But you know what?"
Tears spill down the wrinkled cheeks. Mr. Godfrey shakes his head silently.
"I'm very fortunate. Sometimes, I can communicate with the dead, and I have a message for you. From your son. You know what he said?"
Frowning, Wilson squeezes Andrew's shoulder in warning, and Andrew glances up at him. "Don't manipulate him," he breathes.
Andrew puts his hand over Wilson's placatingly. "I'm not; I'm telling the truth," he whispers back. He returns his attention to the patient. "You know your son really adored the water and that he owned a small boat? You remember that special flower arrangement you ordered for his funeral? It was shaped like an anchor? He said that he absolutely loved it. And he loves you, too, very much. He's sorry that he can't be with you in person, but he's with you in spirit. Constantly. He asked me to tell you that you're never alone."
"Anchor? Yeah... The funeral. I can't believe that I'd forget about that." Mr. Godfrey lifts his hand, and Andrew lightly grips the swollen, useless fingers. The disorientation temporarily vanishes. "You must think I'm an idiot. I get very confused."
Andrew winks at him. To make him feel better, he says, "That happens to the best of us. Bet Doctor Wilson can't even recall what he had for breakfast." He grins wickedly at Wilson. "What was it, doc? French toast or cereal?"
Brain evidently an empty shell, Wilson stares blankly back at him.
Patting Mr. Godfrey's shoulder, Andrew says in a stage whisper, "I rest my case."
"Thank you, boy," Mr. Godfrey says. "For the message from my son. Thank you so much." He looks up at Andrew as if he's Jimmy Olsen catching his first glimpse of a billowing red cape and matching boots. With something resembling awe.
Wilson can relate to how he feels.
*
"You're Andrew?"
Having just deposited a neatly wrapped present on Wilson's desk, Andrew turns to see House leaning insouciantly against Wilson's doorframe. "That's right," he says. "And you're the ever-elusive Doctor House." He smiles in apology. "Doctor Wilson isn't here, right now."
House limps further into the office and waves his cane right under Andrew's nose. "It's not a white stick," he says.
Smart aleck, Andrew thinks fondly. "No," he says, looking suitably chastened. "I guess it's not."
House walks boldly around the desk and settles, with the ease of long practice, into Wilson's black leather chair. Picking up the present, fingernails already worrying at one edge of the sellotape, he regards Andrew with bright, suspicious eyes. "Phallic shaped. Tells me all I need to know."
"And that tells me that you have a vivid imagination," Andrew replies lightly. "All I see is a poster."
"Huh." House nods, peering intently down at the gift like a man endowed with x-ray vision. "A nude Mia Kirshner?"
Watching House's hands, Andrew says evenly, "You should be so lucky. It's an extremely rare, original movie poster from old Yugoslavia. Advertises Notorious. It's sixty two years old but in pristine condition; I was lucky to get it." He winces as the long fingers clench - doesn't have to clearly be able to see House's face to know it's a mask of irritation. "Think he'll like it?"
"Oh, he idolizes Hitchcock," House says coldly. "Hates sycophants, though."
Andrew laughs aloud. "Who doesn't?"
House looks up at him in mute surprise.
Indicating the present in House's hands, Andrew says mildly, "Yugoslavia's been ripped apart. Wouldn't it be a pity if the same happened to that?"
House's hands still. Grudgingly, he places the gift back onto Wilson's desk.
Sitting down in the chair opposite him, Andrew casually links both hands behind his head and rests one ankle on top of the opposite knee: a man at ease.
The two men study each other silently.
Andrew's gaze strips House down to his bare essence. He catalogs every fear, every weakness, every psychological scar. House, he is reasonably confident, is learning nothing.
"How long have you been working here?"
"Hmm?" Shocked out of pity, Andrew blinks his eyes back into focus. "As Wilson's assistant? Oh. Not for long." He shrugs well defined shoulders. "Approximately five weeks."
"You handy with a camera?" House asks abruptly.
You suspect that I was the one that took those photos? Andrew expertly covers up his dismay. "Never owned one. To be honest..." He hesitates, House quiet, and still examining him attentively. "Let me explain something," Andrew says. "Now, this may sound stupid..."
"There's no may about it."
"...but, last weekend, Doctor Wilson and I went out for lunch. I drove to his apartment, but neither of us really wanted to drive to a restaurant and have to worry about parking, and so, from there, we decided to catch a bus."
House opens his mouth to interrupt.
"Hush. Let me finish." When the other man cautiously nods, Andrew continues. "We were sitting on the bus, the driver waiting at the stop until it was time for him to leave, when a pedestrian crossed the road and started to walk alongside the bus, trailing his fingers along the windows. He was very young... nineteen, twenty maybe. Anyway, he started at the front of the bus and walked towards us - we were sitting together near the back - and everyone was ignoring him. You know how it is? People were looking the other way or were reading or texting or fiddling with their iPods. He passed everybody, hand sweeping over panes of glass and nobody paid him any attention at all."
"I've rarely been so enthralled." Leather creaks as House shifts uncomfortably in the chair.
Andrew ignores the sarcasm, knowing that House is listening to every word. That even when he's geared up and itching for battle, House always listens. "When that kid reached our window, on impulse, Doctor Wilson lifted his hand and touched his fingers to the glass as that boy walked past. The kid carried on walking, but we both looked back at him, just as he turned his head to look back at Doctor Wilson and that kid's smile..." Andrew's face lights up with recollection. "His smile was rapturous. There's no other word for it."
Andrew places his hands in his lap and uncrosses his legs. He sits forward. "A split-second moment like that? What are the chances of getting that on camera? And even if you could... it would be cheapened if captured on two-dimensional paper. Do you understand what I mean?"
Eyes unreadable, House continues to stare at him for another minute and then climbs shakily to his feet. "Yes," he says thoughtfully. He reaches for his cane. "You evidently live a really humdrum existence, but yeah, I know what you mean."
"It might not be as thrilling as... I don't know... Shamu jumping through a hoop or the 1969 lunar landing but two perfect strangers bonding?" Andrew lightly thumps his chest. "In my book, that's monumental." He nods at the poster. "You can add your name to the tag, if you like. We'll say the present's from both of us. I honestly don't mind."
House looks at him as if he's sprouted another head. "Why would you be willing to do that?" he demands.
"It's not as if it cost much; it literally fell into my lap." Andrew regards him calmly. "I'm not your enemy, Doctor House."
"That remains to be seen." Thrown completely, House scratches his scalp, incensed that the offer has been made. "I don't want to steal any of your credit," he says finally, shame-faced. "I forgot that it's Wilson's birthday."
"No, you didn't." Andrew grins up at House impishly. "Haven't you invited Doctor Wilson out for a birthday meal?"
Idly, House swings the cane from the tip of his middle finger. Then, delighting Andrew, who records another Kodak moment in his heart, House tentatively smiles back.
*
Sitting, sprawled, on his hall carpet, head lolling against the wall, Wilson channels the wisdom of the ages. "I don't like getting drunk," he announces.
House smirks down at him. "You should have thought of that before you gulped down your sixth martini."
Wilson rubs his face. "I feel vulnerable."
"You are. Stay there, and you run the risk of being devoured by carpet mites." House claps his hands together, cane balanced precariously against his legs. "Come on, soldier, let's go."
Sighing wearily, Wilson holds out both hands, displaying nails bitten down to the quick. "Help me up," he says.
House looks vastly put out, but he does grasp both of Wilson's wrists. "I thought you said you could hold your drink? A toddler could drink you under the table." He grimaces as he pulls his friend to his feet. "Let's get you to bed."
The two men stagger along to the bedroom, House with a supportive arm around Wilson's waist. He curses him, for appearance's sake, every stumbled step of the way. "You know I'm too old for this, right? Next time, I'm going out with a teetotaler. Jeez... would you watch my leg?"
Safely escorted into the bedroom, Wilson glances around, then has an unexpected fit of the giggles.
Watching him, House feels his heart break a little. The giggling stops almost as quickly as it had began, and, concerned, House grips Wilson's upper arms to steady him. "You okay?"
"Yeah." Wilson rests his forehead against House's shoulder. "Dizzy. Need to lie down," he murmurs.
"You are so wasted." House places his hand lightly on the back of Wilson's neck. "Before you sober up, you wanna unburden yourself by divulging all your dark and dirty secrets to me?"
Wilson shakes his head vehemently.
"No? Sensible. Confide in someone who won't mock." House steers him to the bed.
Withdrawn now, Wilson fumbles to undo his tie until House knocks his hands away.
"Allow me." Concentrating on his task, hands busy near Wilson's throat, it's a while before he meets Wilson's eyes. They're overbright. "What?" House says.
Wilson sits down heavily on the bed and runs his hand over the sheet. "I miss her dreadfully," he admits.
House swallows hard. "I know."
Still clothed, Wilson lies tiredly down on his side, hands tucked up against his chest.
Hurting for him, House removes his friend's shoes and socks in silence.
Remembering his manners, Wilson rolls onto his back and gazes drowsily up at him. "I had the best time, House." His words are slurred. His eyelids start to flutter closed. "It was a per... a perfect even..."
House draws the sheet up over him, smiling down at the insensible man. Then his smile fades as Wilson's words rise up to haunt him. A perfect evening? Well, yes, in most respects, it had been. The restaurant, the food, the service - they had all been excellent. And Wilson's company?
Brushing thick, wayward hair back behind Wilson's ear, House stares down at his friend's long, dark lashes. At the quick-fire mouth, enchantingly softened now, in sleep.
Wilson's companionship had been exemplary.
Encouraged by unseen, interfering hands, House leans over and lightly presses his mouth against Wilson's. It's a kiss born out of gratitude, of deep, abiding affection, but Wilson's lips remain slightly parted under his - unresponsive - and after a couple of moments, House unwillingly straightens up.
His eyes are blazing.
How much headway can he make - could anybody make - in one lousy evening? It's a joke.
He needs more time. More time to work on Wilson, more time to try to seduce him.
Wilson was lonely and had sequestered himself in his dead girlfriend's apartment. How unhealthy was that? He was - well, not lonely, exactly, but... ostracized. By all and sundry. If the two of them got together?
House gently strokes his friend's smooth cheek, and Wilson turns instinctively into the touch. Yes, House thinks feverishly. You might joke about the two of us dating, but it does make sense. I know I can make it work.
The evening had been wonderful. It had far surpassed his wildest dreams, but he needs to arrange another meeting with Michael. He hadn't planned to. He doesn't relish the idea but needs must.
He's made a huge, tactical error. He hadn't made his demands specific enough. Fair enough, during dinner, Wilson had been thoroughly charming. He'd been witty, engaging and attentive - everything a friend could possibly ask for, in fact, but House still feels vaguely dissatisfied.
He can see things with crystal clarity now. He understands where he's faltered, and he knows, precisely, what he wants.
He wants more.
To be continued.
Author: Fayding_fast
Chapter: 4/12
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em
Rating: PG
Pairing: House/Wilson (pre-slash)
Spoilers: Yes, for Wilson's Heart
Con-crit? Yes please and thank you kindly.
Summary: House meets a strange man who promises House that he can help him to get his friendship with Wilson back on track.
"Doc?" The elderly man's slightly dazed eyes search Wilson's face. "What's in these cups?"
"Well," Wilson explains patiently for the third time, "this one holds orange juice, and you've got plain water in this one. You want a drink now?"
Mr. Godfrey looks anxious. "I don't know whether to or not. Do you think I should, Doc?"
"It wouldn't hurt." Wilson picks up the juice and guides the straw into his patient's mouth. Mr. Godfrey lifts a clumsy hand to try to assist him, but Wilson pushes it back down. "Steady, Mr. Godfrey. I've got it."
Cervical spondylosis and now, prostate cancer. His patient is frail. Taller than Wilson, he only weighs about one hundred and thirty pounds, and he's unable to stand up or grip with either of his hands. He can't hold a book or a fork or wash his own face. He can't do anything for himself and is totally bedridden, and he will be, for the rest of his life.
Wilson has to remain dispassionate when dealing with patients; he has to maintain a remote objectivity. But sometimes, it's hard. It's unbelievably hard.
His patient indicates that he's had enough to drink, and Wilson sets the cup down out of Mr. Godfrey's reach so that he can't accidentally knock it over. He wipes the old man's mouth. "Mr. Godfrey?" He waits until the wandering blue eyes lock onto his. "My night staff informed me that you had a bad night. Are you in a lot of pain?"
Mr. Godfrey lowers his gaze. "It's not too bad, Doc."
Wilson is dubious. "You need to tell me if you are. There's no need for you to suffer; I can increase your medication."
"No, I'm okay." Mr. Godfrey looks up at Wilson hopefully. "There is one thing you can do for me, if you would."
"Sure." Wilson is only too glad to help. "What is it?"
"My son. Could you try to get hold of him? He doesn't know I'm here."
Wilson freezes. You poor man, he thinks. You poor, poor man. "I..." For the first time ever, when dealing with a patient, words fail him. He stares down into the expectant, faded eyes and can't think of a single thing to say. Cold droplets trickle down between his shoulder blades. "I..."
"Doc? You alright?"
"Mr. Godfrey..." Wilson rubs circles on his temple. "I..."
"Of course he's alright," a soothing voice cuts in.
A hand fleetingly touches the small of Wilson's back, and he turns to see his assistant. Strange, the way Andrew always seems to turn up when he's at his most stressed; funny, how his body relaxes, just at the mere sight of him. "Andrew," he murmurs thankfully, in greeting.
"Doctor Wilson," Andrew says formally. He smiles down at Mr. Godfrey. "Stan," he says, "you mischief maker. You causing trouble with a capital T?"
"Not me, boy." Mr. Godfrey beams up at Andrew, genuinely happy to see him.
Andrew frowns playfully. "Hmmm. My eyes must have deceived me. And how are you, on this fine morning?"
"I'm not too bad, boy. Mustn't grumble."
"You're the only patient that doesn't," Andrew responds. "Hey, your back's a little twisted; you don't look particularly comfortable. I'll shift you over." Before Wilson can stop him, he single handedly moves Mr. Godfrey towards the center of the bed. He plumps up the patient's pillow and smooths the bottom sheet. "That's much better," he says.
"Don't let Cuddy see you do that," Wilson warns him. "You're not supposed to lift anybody on your own. You should ask a couple of the nurses to do it."
"Please." Andrew flexes his muscles, eyes twinkling. "Strong as an ox, me. Isn't that right, Stan? I think Doctor Wilson, here, frets too much. He's going to worry himself into an early grave. What do you reckon?"
"He is going gray." Mr. Godfrey eyes Wilson up and down carefully. "You know, I reckon you could be right."
Wilson swallows an outraged laugh. He watches curiously as Andrew perches himself on the edge of the hospital bed.
"Stan," Andrew says. "You were asking Doctor Wilson about your son?" Andrew raises an eyebrow.
"Colin?" Mr. Godfrey lifts his grizzled head as if expecting to see his son camped out on the chair beside him. "Lovely boy, he is," he says, voice cracking. "Makes me proud. He'd do anything for anyone." He looks confused. "Where is he? Did you manage to get hold of him?"
Andrew shakes his head slowly. "Colin died five years ago in a car accident. He died instantly. He suffered no pain at all. Do you remember that?"
"Died?" Mr. Godfrey has tears in his eyes. "My son's dead?"
"Yes," Andrew says softly. "But you know what?"
Tears spill down the wrinkled cheeks. Mr. Godfrey shakes his head silently.
"I'm very fortunate. Sometimes, I can communicate with the dead, and I have a message for you. From your son. You know what he said?"
Frowning, Wilson squeezes Andrew's shoulder in warning, and Andrew glances up at him. "Don't manipulate him," he breathes.
Andrew puts his hand over Wilson's placatingly. "I'm not; I'm telling the truth," he whispers back. He returns his attention to the patient. "You know your son really adored the water and that he owned a small boat? You remember that special flower arrangement you ordered for his funeral? It was shaped like an anchor? He said that he absolutely loved it. And he loves you, too, very much. He's sorry that he can't be with you in person, but he's with you in spirit. Constantly. He asked me to tell you that you're never alone."
"Anchor? Yeah... The funeral. I can't believe that I'd forget about that." Mr. Godfrey lifts his hand, and Andrew lightly grips the swollen, useless fingers. The disorientation temporarily vanishes. "You must think I'm an idiot. I get very confused."
Andrew winks at him. To make him feel better, he says, "That happens to the best of us. Bet Doctor Wilson can't even recall what he had for breakfast." He grins wickedly at Wilson. "What was it, doc? French toast or cereal?"
Brain evidently an empty shell, Wilson stares blankly back at him.
Patting Mr. Godfrey's shoulder, Andrew says in a stage whisper, "I rest my case."
"Thank you, boy," Mr. Godfrey says. "For the message from my son. Thank you so much." He looks up at Andrew as if he's Jimmy Olsen catching his first glimpse of a billowing red cape and matching boots. With something resembling awe.
Wilson can relate to how he feels.
*
"You're Andrew?"
Having just deposited a neatly wrapped present on Wilson's desk, Andrew turns to see House leaning insouciantly against Wilson's doorframe. "That's right," he says. "And you're the ever-elusive Doctor House." He smiles in apology. "Doctor Wilson isn't here, right now."
House limps further into the office and waves his cane right under Andrew's nose. "It's not a white stick," he says.
Smart aleck, Andrew thinks fondly. "No," he says, looking suitably chastened. "I guess it's not."
House walks boldly around the desk and settles, with the ease of long practice, into Wilson's black leather chair. Picking up the present, fingernails already worrying at one edge of the sellotape, he regards Andrew with bright, suspicious eyes. "Phallic shaped. Tells me all I need to know."
"And that tells me that you have a vivid imagination," Andrew replies lightly. "All I see is a poster."
"Huh." House nods, peering intently down at the gift like a man endowed with x-ray vision. "A nude Mia Kirshner?"
Watching House's hands, Andrew says evenly, "You should be so lucky. It's an extremely rare, original movie poster from old Yugoslavia. Advertises Notorious. It's sixty two years old but in pristine condition; I was lucky to get it." He winces as the long fingers clench - doesn't have to clearly be able to see House's face to know it's a mask of irritation. "Think he'll like it?"
"Oh, he idolizes Hitchcock," House says coldly. "Hates sycophants, though."
Andrew laughs aloud. "Who doesn't?"
House looks up at him in mute surprise.
Indicating the present in House's hands, Andrew says mildly, "Yugoslavia's been ripped apart. Wouldn't it be a pity if the same happened to that?"
House's hands still. Grudgingly, he places the gift back onto Wilson's desk.
Sitting down in the chair opposite him, Andrew casually links both hands behind his head and rests one ankle on top of the opposite knee: a man at ease.
The two men study each other silently.
Andrew's gaze strips House down to his bare essence. He catalogs every fear, every weakness, every psychological scar. House, he is reasonably confident, is learning nothing.
"How long have you been working here?"
"Hmm?" Shocked out of pity, Andrew blinks his eyes back into focus. "As Wilson's assistant? Oh. Not for long." He shrugs well defined shoulders. "Approximately five weeks."
"You handy with a camera?" House asks abruptly.
You suspect that I was the one that took those photos? Andrew expertly covers up his dismay. "Never owned one. To be honest..." He hesitates, House quiet, and still examining him attentively. "Let me explain something," Andrew says. "Now, this may sound stupid..."
"There's no may about it."
"...but, last weekend, Doctor Wilson and I went out for lunch. I drove to his apartment, but neither of us really wanted to drive to a restaurant and have to worry about parking, and so, from there, we decided to catch a bus."
House opens his mouth to interrupt.
"Hush. Let me finish." When the other man cautiously nods, Andrew continues. "We were sitting on the bus, the driver waiting at the stop until it was time for him to leave, when a pedestrian crossed the road and started to walk alongside the bus, trailing his fingers along the windows. He was very young... nineteen, twenty maybe. Anyway, he started at the front of the bus and walked towards us - we were sitting together near the back - and everyone was ignoring him. You know how it is? People were looking the other way or were reading or texting or fiddling with their iPods. He passed everybody, hand sweeping over panes of glass and nobody paid him any attention at all."
"I've rarely been so enthralled." Leather creaks as House shifts uncomfortably in the chair.
Andrew ignores the sarcasm, knowing that House is listening to every word. That even when he's geared up and itching for battle, House always listens. "When that kid reached our window, on impulse, Doctor Wilson lifted his hand and touched his fingers to the glass as that boy walked past. The kid carried on walking, but we both looked back at him, just as he turned his head to look back at Doctor Wilson and that kid's smile..." Andrew's face lights up with recollection. "His smile was rapturous. There's no other word for it."
Andrew places his hands in his lap and uncrosses his legs. He sits forward. "A split-second moment like that? What are the chances of getting that on camera? And even if you could... it would be cheapened if captured on two-dimensional paper. Do you understand what I mean?"
Eyes unreadable, House continues to stare at him for another minute and then climbs shakily to his feet. "Yes," he says thoughtfully. He reaches for his cane. "You evidently live a really humdrum existence, but yeah, I know what you mean."
"It might not be as thrilling as... I don't know... Shamu jumping through a hoop or the 1969 lunar landing but two perfect strangers bonding?" Andrew lightly thumps his chest. "In my book, that's monumental." He nods at the poster. "You can add your name to the tag, if you like. We'll say the present's from both of us. I honestly don't mind."
House looks at him as if he's sprouted another head. "Why would you be willing to do that?" he demands.
"It's not as if it cost much; it literally fell into my lap." Andrew regards him calmly. "I'm not your enemy, Doctor House."
"That remains to be seen." Thrown completely, House scratches his scalp, incensed that the offer has been made. "I don't want to steal any of your credit," he says finally, shame-faced. "I forgot that it's Wilson's birthday."
"No, you didn't." Andrew grins up at House impishly. "Haven't you invited Doctor Wilson out for a birthday meal?"
Idly, House swings the cane from the tip of his middle finger. Then, delighting Andrew, who records another Kodak moment in his heart, House tentatively smiles back.
*
Sitting, sprawled, on his hall carpet, head lolling against the wall, Wilson channels the wisdom of the ages. "I don't like getting drunk," he announces.
House smirks down at him. "You should have thought of that before you gulped down your sixth martini."
Wilson rubs his face. "I feel vulnerable."
"You are. Stay there, and you run the risk of being devoured by carpet mites." House claps his hands together, cane balanced precariously against his legs. "Come on, soldier, let's go."
Sighing wearily, Wilson holds out both hands, displaying nails bitten down to the quick. "Help me up," he says.
House looks vastly put out, but he does grasp both of Wilson's wrists. "I thought you said you could hold your drink? A toddler could drink you under the table." He grimaces as he pulls his friend to his feet. "Let's get you to bed."
The two men stagger along to the bedroom, House with a supportive arm around Wilson's waist. He curses him, for appearance's sake, every stumbled step of the way. "You know I'm too old for this, right? Next time, I'm going out with a teetotaler. Jeez... would you watch my leg?"
Safely escorted into the bedroom, Wilson glances around, then has an unexpected fit of the giggles.
Watching him, House feels his heart break a little. The giggling stops almost as quickly as it had began, and, concerned, House grips Wilson's upper arms to steady him. "You okay?"
"Yeah." Wilson rests his forehead against House's shoulder. "Dizzy. Need to lie down," he murmurs.
"You are so wasted." House places his hand lightly on the back of Wilson's neck. "Before you sober up, you wanna unburden yourself by divulging all your dark and dirty secrets to me?"
Wilson shakes his head vehemently.
"No? Sensible. Confide in someone who won't mock." House steers him to the bed.
Withdrawn now, Wilson fumbles to undo his tie until House knocks his hands away.
"Allow me." Concentrating on his task, hands busy near Wilson's throat, it's a while before he meets Wilson's eyes. They're overbright. "What?" House says.
Wilson sits down heavily on the bed and runs his hand over the sheet. "I miss her dreadfully," he admits.
House swallows hard. "I know."
Still clothed, Wilson lies tiredly down on his side, hands tucked up against his chest.
Hurting for him, House removes his friend's shoes and socks in silence.
Remembering his manners, Wilson rolls onto his back and gazes drowsily up at him. "I had the best time, House." His words are slurred. His eyelids start to flutter closed. "It was a per... a perfect even..."
House draws the sheet up over him, smiling down at the insensible man. Then his smile fades as Wilson's words rise up to haunt him. A perfect evening? Well, yes, in most respects, it had been. The restaurant, the food, the service - they had all been excellent. And Wilson's company?
Brushing thick, wayward hair back behind Wilson's ear, House stares down at his friend's long, dark lashes. At the quick-fire mouth, enchantingly softened now, in sleep.
Wilson's companionship had been exemplary.
Encouraged by unseen, interfering hands, House leans over and lightly presses his mouth against Wilson's. It's a kiss born out of gratitude, of deep, abiding affection, but Wilson's lips remain slightly parted under his - unresponsive - and after a couple of moments, House unwillingly straightens up.
His eyes are blazing.
How much headway can he make - could anybody make - in one lousy evening? It's a joke.
He needs more time. More time to work on Wilson, more time to try to seduce him.
Wilson was lonely and had sequestered himself in his dead girlfriend's apartment. How unhealthy was that? He was - well, not lonely, exactly, but... ostracized. By all and sundry. If the two of them got together?
House gently strokes his friend's smooth cheek, and Wilson turns instinctively into the touch. Yes, House thinks feverishly. You might joke about the two of us dating, but it does make sense. I know I can make it work.
The evening had been wonderful. It had far surpassed his wildest dreams, but he needs to arrange another meeting with Michael. He hadn't planned to. He doesn't relish the idea but needs must.
He's made a huge, tactical error. He hadn't made his demands specific enough. Fair enough, during dinner, Wilson had been thoroughly charming. He'd been witty, engaging and attentive - everything a friend could possibly ask for, in fact, but House still feels vaguely dissatisfied.
He can see things with crystal clarity now. He understands where he's faltered, and he knows, precisely, what he wants.
He wants more.
To be continued.