FIC: The Body Found, 7/8

[fourteencandles]

Ten Weeks Back

House prescribes Xanax and Wilson takes it. It makes him dizzy for two days but he keeps taking it, makes sure he always takes it in front of House. House stays home from work for the rest of the week, just two days, and keeps watching him with wide eyes. It's not his usual curiosity but something more fragile and fearful, so Wilson works very hard to act like the medication is making a difference. He's not sure that it is, but he wants it to work. Living with a little less anxiety sounds great.

On Monday Wilson tells House to go back to work and House does. He calls once in the morning and once in the afternoon, and both times he complains about his staff and the food at the hospital and Cuddy's interference in his business. Wilson knows he's just checking in and he appreciates it. House does the same thing the next morning, but at lunch he calls and says, "I just had a call from the district attorney's office. They want to send someone over to talk to you."

"Oh," Wilson says. "When?"

"This afternoon," House says. "Do you want me to come home?"

"No," Wilson says, though he does, really. But House has just gone back to work, and he has a patient. Wilson can sense that he's getting tired of holding Wilson's hand. "It's fine."

"Because I can."

Wilson smiles, just a little. "Enjoy your clinic hours."

He hangs up and takes a shower and shaves. He hasn't seen anyone but House for a while, now; Cameron's visit never materialized, and Wilson has a feeling House is holding everyone else off. That's fine, actually, Wilson appreciates it. He changes into a T-shirt and a sweatshirt and a pair of track pants that he finds in House's closet. They're a little loose on him. He can't really believe that House's clothes are too big for him.

The woman arrives at 2 and she shows Wilson her DA badge before he lets her in. Her name is Katrina Kennison, and she's slender and blonde and two years ago Wilson would have hit on her. Now, he shows her to the living room and offers her a cup of coffee, which she accepts, and then sits in the armchair, as far away from her as he can be.

"So," she says, "I wanted to talk about the trial."

Wilson holds his tea in both hands, warming his fingers. All he knows is what House has told him: that the kidnappers were all arrested at the same time Wilson was found, that they've all been in custody since then. "I'll have to testify?"

"Actually, that's why I'm here. The statement you gave to the F.B.I. has been passed to us, and the Hallorans have asked to make a deal. We're going to plead them out."

"Out?" Wilson says, his voice softer than he intended.

She explains the plea deal slowly: one of the brothers' girlfriends has turned state's evidence, and with her statement and Wilson's, they have an air-tight case for attempted murder, aggravated kidnapping, and a few other things that have nothing to do with Wilson. "They were facing life," she says. "That tends to make people talk."

The new deal will put them all behind bars for at least 25 years. "And Dr. House has volunteered to show up at their parole hearings, so I can't imagine there's much chance of early release," she says.

Wilson nods. His tea has cooled, and he sets the cup on the coffee table. "So -- what do you need from me?" he asks.

"Actually, just your signature," Katrina says. She pulls a folder out of her briefcase and slides it across the coffee table, flips it open. There's a neatly typed form with an official-looking State of New Jersey stamp across the top. "This is the transcription of the statement you gave to Agent Bettes. I just need you to read over it and see if there's anything you're not comfortable with, or anything you'd like to add."

"It's fine," Wilson says, not looking at the statement. "It was all true."

She nods. "Take your time, Dr. Wilson," she says.

He looks at the paper and lets his eyes unfocus, traces his fingers across the blurred lines so it looks like he's reading. His eyes catch anyway on a few words, "cement" and "cell" and "starved" and "alone."

"Yep," he says after a moment, "looks good." He accepts a pen from her and signs his name across the bottom, on three different copies. She offers to fax him a copy for himself, and Wilson says she can send it to House's office because he doesn't know the home number.

"Thank you, again," she says, standing.

"Of course," he says. "Anything I can do to help."

Katrina smiles. "You look much better," she says, and Wilson tries his best to smile back. He sees her to the door. When she's gone, he feels very, very alone. He checks the locks on the door, then goes into the bathroom and locks the door there, too. He thinks of calling House, asking him to come home, but he can't think of why that would make sense. Everything is fine, he tells himself. They're gone, they can't hurt him. Twenty-five years is a long, long time. And a lot can happen over twenty-five years in prison. Just look what can happen in a year.

He splashes water on his face and then looks at his own eyes. Clear enough, not red. His pulse is even when he checks it. Maybe the fact that he isn't curled up on the dining room floor is a victory for the Xanax. Maybe things are getting better.

He goes back to the living room and sits on the couch, flips on the television and tries to find something completely bland. Food TV fits the bill, and he watches a cake marathon for hours, with a blanket wrapped around him. The phone rings in the afternoon, but he doesn't answer; House will think he's napping.

When the door opens, Wilson flinches hard, and he's on his feet within seconds, the blanket clutched around his shoulders. House walks in, looking at the mail. He looks up. "Hello," he says.

Wilson swallows, with some difficulty. "Uh, hey," he says.

House sits on the couch, just where Katrina sat before. Her mug is still on the table; Wilson forgot to clear it. He feels awkward, standing while House sits, but he's jumpy, he can't make himself settle down again. "How'd the meeting go?"

"Fine," Wilson says. "You knew they made a deal?"

House nods. Wilson finds himself nodding back. "They'll all be at least 55 by the time they get out," he says. "Older, if the parole board can be made to see reason."

Wilson has a flash, suddenly, of House going to the parole board every year, of him putting up pictures of Wilson during his hospital stay, reading his chart, talking about him to these strangers. He imagines House telling them why these men deserve to stay in prison.

"You all right?" House asks.

It's hard, but Wilson manages to swallow. He's sure his face is showing things he'd rather it didn't, but he focuses, instead, on keeping his breathing even. "Yeah," he says, nodding.

It's weird to hear House even ask the question, but this is how they function, now. House takes care of him. They aren't really friends, at this point; it's not quite a doctor-patient relationship, but it's certainly not what they used to have, either. "They deserved life," House says, looking down at the mail in his hands.

Wilson can't reply; he can't even move quite yet. He thinks he should sit next to House, maybe, try to calm down. How has he gotten here, though, where House feels like comfort? He remembers Katrina saying the men were facing life, for the things they'd done, and he thinks, it's just like murder, it's like they've killed me.

"Junk," House says. He puts the mail down on the coffee table and gets up, the mug in hand. He starts for the kitchen. "You want a drink?"

Wilson can't answer. His throat is tight. He's going to cry. Even after two months, he recognizes the symptoms. He drops the blanket, turns, quickly, and walks to the bathroom, shuts the door, grips the sink. Fuck, he thinks, bending over it.

He hears a tap on the door. "Wilson?"

"Fine," he says. He drags his sleeve across his face and reaches over, flushes the toilet for effect. He washes his hands on autopilot. No way he can go out and face House, not like this. House is too worried as it is. He turns on the shower and takes off his shirt and pants, then sits on the edge of the tub and watches the water run. He thinks about eating take-out with House, sitting on the couch and laughing; he thinks about how House used to tease him about being too dressed up all the time; he thinks about how tired House looks and how tired Wilson feels, now, how it's like sharing a house with a stranger because they both seem to be frightened of the other's reactions to everything. He thinks about being alone, again. Cement, cell, starved. He ducks his head and sees his thin legs and the crying starts, hard, heavy, nearly-silent crying, the kind that makes his stomach hurt. It's been two months and he should be getting better, but he's not going to gain all of the weight back and he's not going to get back to where he was with House. He's not getting his job back. He's not getting his life back. Every few minutes, it feels like something else happens to shake him up. There will never again be a stable, steady, safe moment. Maybe there never were stable moments, but now he knows the difference and it's impossible to think that worry, that awareness, will ever go away.

When he can breathe, again, when his head hurts and he feels dry, even in the steamy room, he ducks his head under the spray and rubs soap over his forearms, hoping the smell will be enough to fool House. He dries off, then wipes the mirror and looks at himself. His face is red, but it could be the steam.

He opens the door. The television is singing in the living room, and Wilson turns in that direction but feels a quick, unexpected wave of sadness and instead crosses to his bedroom. He doesn't close the door, because that would look suspicious. His pajamas are draped over the dresser, and he puts them on automatically. He sits on the bed. OK, OK, he thinks, you're OK. His voice in his own head is soothing. He listens to the sound of House snorting at something on TV, and that's soothing, too. He tips onto his side, his eyes open, still listening, and tries taking deep breaths and thinking of nothing.

The bed dips and Wilson realizes he fell asleep. He turns and sees House settling in beside him. His stomach flops. House is eating something from a bowl. "Go away," Wilson murmurs, rolling back to his side.

"Nope."

He hears the television turn on and sighs. He tries to touch his eyes surreptitiously, feeling for swelling around the lids, any sign of crying. Seems clear. He may have been sleeping for a while. He rolls on to his back, then sits up next to House. He's eating cereal, a brown milky mush in his bowl. "What time is it?"

"Eight something," House says. "You slept through dinner."

"You seem to be surviving."

House grumbles and eats another spoonful.

Wilson leans his head back against the headboard. He says, "Why do you think they deserve life?"

House's spoon clanks against the bowl, and Wilson watches him take a bite and swallow. "Because I will never get over this," House says. "And neither should they."

Wilson opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks away, down at the bedspread, at his own thin fingers. He's cold, he's tired, and he knows what House isn't saying, that Wilson will never get over this, either. "Would you mind staying in here, tonight?" Wilson asks.

House nods. "I was lonely, anyway," he says. It comes too easy and feels like pity, but Wilson decides he won't care, for once; he'll take House's kindness in stride.

After two weeks on the anti-anxiety meds, Wilson has a good day. When House wakes up, Wilson is already cooking breakfast, and there's no sign that he's been in House's bed. House pokes his head into the kitchen and Wilson smiles, and it's a big broad Old Wilson grin. He's wearing jeans and a T-shirt instead of pajamas, and he's clean shaven and showered. He looks like stick figure, still, but he also looks like himself. "Morning, sunshine," he says. "You want pancakes?"

He does. They eat breakfast and House gets ready for the day. It's Saturday, and House has no patients, but he'd told Wilson the night before that he might have to go in to work. Sometimes he needs to get away. He checks Wilson's Xanax bottle and makes sure the appropriate number of pills are missing, then finishes brushing his teeth.

Wilson is watching television, something where people are buying and selling houses. "Oh, you idiot," Wilson says to the television, "they don't care about the trim." House decides he probably doesn't need to stop by the office. He sits on the couch with Wilson for a while, watching stupid weekend TV and half-heartedly sorting through their bills. It's nice. It's relaxing.

After a while, Wilson gets up and starts puttering around, organizing things. He picks up House's shirt from the back of the living room armchair.

"It's so hard for you to find your way to the hamper?"

"I'm just making sure you have something to do," House says.

Wilson shakes his head. He's annoyed, not apologetic. House is grateful. "What do you want for lunch?" he asks. "There's turkey left from last night."

"No more turkey," House says. He rubs his stomach. "If I get any more tryptophan in my system, I'll go into a coma."

"There's more spaghetti sauce, too."

"Huh-uh. No more leftovers." House decides to start an argument he won't win. "Remember waiters? I think that's what I want. A waiter -- maybe a waiter with a burrito."

Wilson puts his hands on his hips. "Fine," he says, "if you want to go out, let's go out."

House grabs his jacket and almost sprints to the door, before Wilson can change his mind. He doesn't ask if Wilson is sure; he doesn't offer any escape, just tosses Wilson his jacket and waits with the front door open. And Wilson follows him, like it is the most natural thing in the world, like they go out all the time. In reality, he's only left the house once in the last two and a half months -- a week ago, when he'd gone with House to the hospital on a Sunday afternoon to have blood drawn, to make sure his potassium levels are OK and to check on his anemia. House had slipped him a valium before that trip, just to make it easier on them both.

"So where do you want to go?" he asks, locking the place up.

"You're the one whining," Wilson says. "You decide." He stays close to House as they walk to the car, but not so close that House is worried.

In the car, House decides he really does want Mexican, and Wilson says that sounds fine. They go to Manny's, which is small and not very busy at that time of day, and House gets a big burrito and a margarita, and after a moment's pause, so does Wilson. They haven't done any drinking since Wilson's been back, and House does a quick mental scan of Wilson's medication interaction warnings. He should be fine.

He's lost so much weight, though, that House can see the alcohol hits him fast. When they get up to leave, Wilson stumbles, just slightly, and grabs House's arm to steady himself. "Lightweight," House mutters, and Wilson grins.

Outside, Wilson keeps his hand on House's arm as they walk to the car but lets him go when they get inside. "Buy me some ice cream," Wilson says, resting his head on the seat back, looking beautifully relaxed.

What Wilson wants, House decides, Wilson gets. He drives through an ice cream place, gets Wilson a hot caramel sundae with cashews and a peanut butter shake for himself. He drives around, aimless, just swinging down various thoroughfares until he finds a route that leads them home. It's nice to be out. When he pulls into the parking garage at his complex, Wilson is bent over his sundae, trying to coax the sticky caramel up from the bottom with his plastic spoon. He looks over at House and laughs. "Better than leftovers," he says, grinning big and wide. "I haven't had ice cream in so long."

House wants to respond, wants to say something funny and sharp, but all he can do is smile back, because he's so fucking glad to see Wilson. So when Wilson sets his sundae down in the cup holder between the seats, and then leans over and kisses House on the mouth, it feels OK. For just a moment, they're both there, in the kiss, and then House thinks drunk and whoa and new Wilson all at the same time and he pulls back.

"What are you -"

"I haven't kissed anyone in almost two years," Wilson says. He touches his mouth, and House looks away. "I'm sorry," he says after a minute.

House isn't sure what, exactly, Wilson is sorry for, but he doesn't want to quiz him on it. He doesn't want to know. "It's fine," he says. "Two years, that'll mess a guy up."

"Hmm."

It's probably the alcohol, and the sugar, the new medication and the first trip out. It's probably nothing, House thinks. It's just another way of Wilson seeking comfort. So what if House's body responded? Maybe, maybe with Old Wilson this would have been OK, but New Wilson -- House can't think about it more. It's like taking advantage. He grabs the door handle and lurches out of the car; his leg holds his weight, and that feels strange.

They go back inside and back to the couch. House talks like it never happened. He says he'll have to go into the office tomorrow, since he didn't go today. He thinks about leaving now. Wilson sits close as they watch TV but that's probably just habit, now; he doesn't seem timid or frightened or needy. House lets himself relax, lets his guard slip. They joke like they always have, and when it's time to go to bed Wilson gets up first and goes, on his own, down the dark hallway. He certainly doesn't try to kiss House again. And that's good, because House isn't sure what would happen if he did try, if Wilson said this was what he wanted, if Wilson -- the Old Wilson -- were asking House for more, like this, more than friendship. He learned to live with what ifs while Wilson was gone -- he can probably handle one more now that he's back.

The next morning, House wakes up when Wilson climbs into bed next to him. Wilson is shaking, just a little. "Nightmare?" House asks.

"Sorry," Wilson murmurs, in his tiny quiet voice. House sighs and turns on his side so he's facing Wilson. Wilson's eyes are closed, his face pale against House's dark pillowcase. He has his hands tucked up under his chin.

"You could just stay in here at night," House mutters, and Wilson's eyes open just slightly, then close again. House watches him for a moment more, then glances at the clock -- 5:20 -- and decides to get more sleep. He can deal with New Wilson in the morning.

When he wakes up to the alarm, he can tell Wilson is wide awake next to him. House shuts off the clock and stares at it for a long minute, not quite ready to turn around and see which Wilson will be with him. Finally he rolls onto his back and glances over and sees Wilson giving him a curious stare. "What?" he asks.

Wilson shakes his head, and then smiles, just a little. He's leaning on one elbow, and then suddenly he's leaning very close to House, and then he kisses House again.

House isn't sure what to do, but his body has ideas, so he latches on, with his mouth and then his hands, and within a minute he has Wilson on his back and Wilson's hands on his chest, his shoulders. "What," House says, but Wilson leans up and kisses him again, and House decides that what Wilson wants, Wilson gets is still a very good policy. Right now, Wilson seems to want him, with some urgency; he can feel Wilson's hard-on against his thigh, and he rocks forward slightly so Wilson can feel his. That earns a groan that House tastes, and they rock and kiss and rock until Wilson puts one of his hands between them and rubs himself, and House decides to do the same, and then they switch, House's hand on Wilson's erection, and then they both come.

When House pulls his head back from Wilson's shoulder, he looks down to see which Wilson this will be. He can't tell; it's both, it's neither. It's a new Wilson altogether, this Wilson they found. "I can stay here?" Wilson asks.

"Yeah," House says, rolling on to his back. Wilson keeps his hand on House's arm. "OK."

Three Months Back

Cuddy goes to House's place -- House and Wilson's place -- on a Tuesday morning, when she knows House is tied up with a patient. She knows Wilson knows this, too, which makes the invitation all the more interesting. He opens the door before she knocks. "Hi," he says, letting her in.

The apartment is immaculately clean -- all Wilson's doing, she's sure. Wilson looks very neat this morning, too: he's wearing tan cotton slacks and a nice brown sweater with a tee underneath. The fit of the clothes is good, which means they must be new. He doesn't look as desperately thin, anymore; he doesn't look healthy yet, either, but she thinks that's just the overlay of what he used to look like. And, maybe, it's an awareness of how he holds himself, now, how he bends his shoulders forward when he sits, how he keeps his hands drawn in close. It's only been three months. She should be surprised to find him standing. "How are you?" she asks, settling on the couch.

"Eh," he says, and shrugs. He takes a seat in the armchair. "How are you? Busy?"

She nods. That's easy. She's always busy. There's no seasonal difference, really, though right now things are a little crazier as the end of the fiscal year is a approaching. They chat about this, about other stupid hospital gossip, about his parents -- who she's met -- and hers, who he's never seen. They talk like people who barely know each other, and people who desperately want to. She hasn't seen him recently, not since he left the hospital, and it only just occurs to her that maybe House hasn't been completely honest about Wilson's desire to be left alone. Maybe he thinks she's been flat-out avoiding him. She can't think of a way to ask that won't sound self-excusing. "I'm glad you e-mailed," she says. "I've been wanting to come by."

He smiles and tips his head, slightly, toward the back of the condo, as though House is there. "He's been guarding my privacy," he says. "If this doctor thing doesn't work out, I really think he may have a promising career as some kind of bouncer." Cuddy laughs. It feels good to laugh with Wilson, even if her laughter seems to echo and bounce off the hard, clean walls. "And he thinks I probably have a solid start on a career in homemaking. Which, speaking of, I'm a terrible host. Out of practice. Can I get you a drink? Coffee?"

"Coffee would be great."

Wilson hurries to the kitchen, and his movements are so quick and sure that Cuddy feels relief. He's not unsteady, he's not brittle or fragile. He's settled in. He's getting better. She gets up to go to the bathroom while he makes the coffee, and on her way back she stops and peeks in at his room. Everything is neat inside, almost exactly as it was when she'd helped House decorate. There's a book on the bedside table, now, and a pair of slippers lined up neatly on the rug by the bed. The curtains are open, letting in the light. It's a nice room, warm, and it makes her smile, makes her feel better. House is taking good care of him.

Wilson brings a mug for her and a cup of juice for himself. When he sits down, Cuddy feels like the real discussion needs to start.

"We're replacing Gerner in Anesthesiology," she says. She says it carefully, wanting him to take the bait. She wants to know whether this meeting he's called is going to be about the hospital, about his coming back to work. That's what she's prepared for.

"Yeah, House said that," Wilson says.

"I'm sure he keeps you up to date on the hospital gossip."

Wilson nods. "He also seems to think I should be pestering you about giving me my job back." Cuddy doesn't move, though her stomach flips. She's ready for this. Really. Wilson has always been good about seeing logic. Wilson smirks. "I don't want my job back, Lisa," he says.

"You - what?" She leans forward.

"I'm not up to running that department. Not now. Maybe, I don't know." He looks down at his hands, and so she does, too. His fingers are thin and pale.

"Not now," she prompts. For all her prepared arguments, she feels a flutter of disappointment, of discomfort, at the idea of Wilson just giving up. This will make her life easier, but the price suddenly seems very high. "But -- at some point?"

He shrugs. "Maybe not for a long while."

"You still want to come back, though," she says. How can there be any other answer than this? she thinks, but when he looks up, she sees grim exhaustion on his face. "Wilson?"

"It takes everything I have just to get up in the morning, sometimes." He says it quietly, but firmly. His hands curl around his glass, and she wonders if they're shaking. "Which is actually what I wanted to talk to you about."

She takes a slow breath. "You think -- are you having trouble? Anxiety?" she asks. PTSD, depression, panic disorder, agoraphobia -- she can think of half a dozen other things that could be bothering him.

"Yeah," he says. "House has me on Xanax, but that's treating the symptoms. I'm -- I'm kind of fucked up," he says. The words come out in a rush. It's funny to hear them in Wilson's voice, this same voice that used to be so reliable and confident and strong. "I need a referral."

"Dr. Stone is --"

"No," Wilson says. "No one at Princeton. I mean, aside from the intra-hospital weirdness, I just -- there's a reason you're here while he isn't." He looks up, his mouth a thin line. "You know?"

She nods. She's heard hints from Stacy of what exactly Wilson might fear. "I'll check with Statler, see who's good over at PG."

"Thank you." He shakes his head. "I'm sorry to lay this on you," he says. "I didn't know who else to ask."

"Hey, we're friends," she says. "It's what friends do." He nods. "You know I'm happy to help. I've been feeling bad, House has been bearing the brunt -" she stops, realizing what she's said as surprise, and amusement, flicker across Wilson's face.

"The brunt of looking after me," he says.

"Well," she says, and she shrugs. "He missed you so much," she says. "While you were gone --"

"We don't really talk about it," he says, almost demurring, but Cuddy suddenly wants him to know. She's seen these two through so many rough patches in the past, she's seen Wilson bend over backward for House, and she wants him to know, really, how deeply House cares.

"He was -- lost," she says. "I thought we'd maybe lost you both, for a while."

Wilson ducks his head. "You know," he says, "he could probably use someone to talk to, as well."

Cuddy laughs. "He's House," she says. "He could use any number of things."

"I think I've messed him up, a little."

She shakes her head. If he could have seen House, if he could have understood the lows, the desperation in his eyes, the anger twitching under his skin, he would get it. House is better with Wilson. Wilson is the cure. "Actually, he seems happier, recently," she says. "You shouldn't worry about him. He takes care of himself. He always has."

"Yeah," Wilson says. He rubs his own neck.

"Seriously," Cuddy says. "Please don't worry about House."

"I know." Wilson sips his juice, and Cuddy leans back in her chair.

It's so Wilson, she thinks, to worry about House when it's Wilson who's falling apart. It would be heartening if it weren't so troubling. "None of this is your fault," she says.

"Oh, some of it is," he says, but in a very low voice. She's not sure she was supposed to hear it.

"Wilson -"

He shakes his head. "It's fine," he says. "Anyway. Thank you, for helping me. I appreciate it."

They make small talk again until she's finished her coffee, and then she has to go. She has an appointment at 11. Wilson sees her to the door, and standing there, she hugs him. He doesn't feel brittle, just shrunken, under her arms. "I want you to come back," she says. "However you want to. I miss you."

He nods against her shoulder. "Thank you, Lisa. Really."

As the door closes, she hears the locks slide. She feels better about that, too. Knowing Wilson is safe means more than it used to. She feels a rush of gratefulness, like she should take House out to dinner and apologize for all of the accusations of selfishness she's made over the years. Instead, she'll do what she can to help him, to help them both: she'll make the call to Statler on the way to the hospital.

Four Months Back

House comes home from the hospital and finds Wilson sitting at the dining room table, reading a magazine and drinking orange juice. He can't get enough orange juice. House drops his jacket over a chair and walks over, takes a seat next to Wilson at the table. The chairs are hard.

"We have a couch," he says. "Two of them, actually."

Wilson nods. It looks like an absent nod, just acknowledgement, but House catches the slight lowering of Wilson's eyelids. Things are getting better, though; he doesn't take everything as an admonishment. He's stopped apologizing all the time. This may be the work of the therapist that Wilson's been seeing, that he thinks House doesn't know about. House knows, of course, but not as much as he'd like.

When Wilson looks up, he has a smile that's almost believable. "How was your day?"

House tells him about his current war with radiology, and Wilson's smile stays fixed. When House pauses, he closes the magazine, very carefully, and tucks his hands under the table. "I'm sure you'll win," he says, his eyes focused somewhere to House's left.

House stares at Wilson until Wilson's eyes flicker toward his face, and he watches as Wilson immediately flinches back from that contact. He sees Wilson's shoulders tense under his sweatshirt, and he thinks, I should have stayed later. House puts his head down on the table. He's tired of everything being so fragile, between them, of never knowing when it's going to be a good day or a bad one. He wants to know more about Wilson's therapist so he can find the guy and beat the crap out of him, because things aren't better. There are more bad days, now, than there have been in weeks, more nightmares, more moments with tears. Wilson has been back with them for four months. Things should be better.

"House?" Wilson says after a moment. His voice is soft, not a voice House should be mad at, except he is because Wilson, the Wilson of old, would have never been so tentative.

"I feel like I should bring you cookies and milk and a puppy every day," he says.

He hears Wilson moving but he doesn't look up. The radio is playing in the kitchen, so quietly that House can't even make out the tune, just that there's a soft hum of background noise. Wilson's fingers rest softly on his head. House stays still, and so the fingers start to move, stroking, softly, across his scalp, and then down to his neck, just careful, feather-light touches. Wilson seems to be trying to soothe him. House turns his head, finally, and sees Wilson's eyes widen. He catches Wilson's hand before it can move completely away.

"It's OK," House says, holding Wilson's hand to his own neck. Wilson's fingers are like ice. "I'm OK."

Wilson nods. He looks House in the eye and holds the look, and then he blinks, and closes his eyes, and leans in. He kisses House's temple, and then presses his face against House's neck. House puts his arm around Wilson's back, and it's a precarious position but it seems to be what Wilson wants and House doesn't mind. "What would I do with a puppy?" Wilson asks, and House smiles. "Let's go to bed," Wilson murmurs, his lips moving against the skin just behind House's ear.

House turns, so that Wilson has to pull back just a bit. They have sex every few days. It's mostly when Wilson asks for it; House understands this for what it is, some kind of Wilson coping mechanism. He's not sure what it says about him that he accepts it so readily -- oh, fine, yes, he's completely sure what it says about him. He wants Wilson. He wants Wilson well, he wants Wilson back, he wants Wilson beside him in the bed. He missed him for a year and he's taking what he can, now, everything Wilson will offer him, and he keeps hoping it will fill the holes in both of them.

"You really want -?"

"No," Wilson says, "I want to talk."

He says so little, anymore, that when he does speak, and when he sounds like himself, House is jarred. It takes him a moment to nod, and then another moment to stand up. He lets Wilson take the lead, follows him through the kitchen and down the hall to the bedroom, stopping in the bathroom on his way. When he gets out, Wilson is in House's bedroom, already sitting on House's side of the bed, in the place where the covers are still pulled back from the night before. House unbuttons his shirt and tosses it over a chair, then takes off his shoes and sits on the other side. He lays on his back. Again, he lets Wilson take the lead, because sex is great however it happens, and he wants Wilson to get what he needs, here. Wilson turns onto his side and runs his hand up House's chest, then kisses him, and House kisses back and helps Wilson move so that he's straddling House. Wilson unzips House's jeans and pushes them down. House can feel Wilson's ribs when he runs his hands over Wilson's chest, and that almost makes him lose his hard-on but then Wilson pulls back and away and goes down on him. He's good, and it's surprising to House on some level, every time, that Wilson's mouth is so goddamned warm. And as he's working House with his mouth, his fingers slide a little lower, and House thinks, OK, and then he says it. Wilson looks up, pulls away for a moment, finds the lubricant and then goes back to what he was doing. Multitasking is so Wilson, House thinks, and he grins and then he comes.

Wilson smiles, too, and it's an actual smile with a little tinge of smugness. House would do anything - particularly if it involved having sex every night - to see that smile more often. It is absolutely the Wilson of old who leans up and lays wet kisses up his chest and then on House's mouth. And it's that same Wilson who takes his sweatpants off and pushes House's legs up - he can do this now, thank God - and slides into him. It hurts a little and he probably won't come a second time but it still feels good and watching Wilson's face is fucking great, it's everything House wants. Wilson looks hungry and raw and needy, but this time in a way that House can fix. "Come on," he growls, his hands tight on Wilson's shoulders. "So fucking good."

Wilson grunts and presses his mouth against House's, kisses him, and House holds Wilson's face close to his and looks him right in the eyes. "Wilson," he says, "all the time, always want --" and Wilson's eyes widen and then close and he shudders and comes.

Afterward, House lets Wilson cling, Wilson's head pressed into his neck, both of Wilson's arms tight around his chest, the blankets pulled up over them both. He doesn't say anything about the sweatshirt having stayed on, but he does rub his hand up Wilson's spine, feeling every bump, checking him in a way that Wilson doesn't allow anymore. He wonders what Wilson's therapist has to say about this. His hand pauses at the small of Wilson's back, where there's softness, a little bit of flesh. He's fine, he's getting better. House actually says this, softly, his lips in Wilson's hair. Wilson doesn't respond, and he might be asleep. That's what House hopes for.

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