Baby Steps
Title: Baby Steps
Author: rslhilson
Rating: T
Summary: Post-"Post Mortem" fic, set immediately thereafter.
Spoilers: 8x19, "The C Word" and 8x20, "Post Mortem."
Pairings: H/W friendship (slash goggles optional)
Disclaimer: Still own nothingAuthor's Note: This actually started out pretty dreary, and then I read writerdot's post-ep fic here and it made me smile, which I really needed...so I hope I made enough of a turnaround, though I couldn't eliminate all the angst. :)
* * * * *
He goes home with House after the scan. He doesn’t want to be alone - they’ve been through too much together lately for him to want to be alone - and if House wants to be alone, well, too bad. This is his cancer, his life, his death. Not House’s.
House sits awkwardly down in the armchair when they finally make it back to the apartment. Wilson mutters something about needing a shower, barely noticing House’s nod from the corner of his eye.
He’s not really sure what he’s doing here, using House’s shampoo and House’s soap and letting House’s hot water rush over his skin. As he lathers, he thinks of how often he’s done this - how often he’s stayed over and filled House’s bathroom with steam - so why should this time be any different, other than what if it’s his last?
God, he’s shaking. Why is he shaking? It’s not even cold - the water is practically burning his skin. Suddenly his body feels like it’s folding in on itself, and as he wraps his arms around his stomach he realizes that he’s doubled over, practically heaving for breath.
Roughly, he shakes his head, using a hand on the tiled wall to force himself back up. No more of this - not today. A few more quick rinses to rub the red out of his eyes. He’ll blame the shampoo if he has to.
Back in the living room, House hasn’t moved from the armchair, though he’s turned on a hockey game rerun on barely audible volume. There’s a beer in his hand, and an unopened one for Wilson - who’s thrown on one of several jeans and t-shirts that he’s always kept here - waiting on the coffee table.
Hesitating, Wilson parks himself on the armrest of the couch. Neither of them has sat on the actual couch since…since that, and he doesn’t particularly feel like putting the past behind him at the moment.
“Shouldn’t you be blow-drying your hair?” House asks.
Wilson runs his fingers through wet strands, only slightly self-conscious. “I think Kyle would let it air-dry. Sounds like a risk he would take.”
“I told you - I can live without Kyle.”
There’s silence as the hockey sticks clatter around on the television screen. Wilson breathes deeply, House’s scent on his hair and skin enveloping him. His gaze lingers on the game just long enough for the puck to make it safely into the net, and he turns to his friend again.
“You’re going to be okay, House.”
He knows it’s not enough. Not yet, anyway. But as much as he’d made it his own crazy road trip, and as much as it’s still his cancer and his life and his death, none of this was ever going to be just his. It couldn’t be. He’d known it as soon as he’d seen the x-rays, and he’d made it real as soon as he’d plopped himself down on House’s couch for three days of chemo-induced Hell.
“You’re not,” House points out quietly.
“No,” Wilson agrees. “But right now…right now, I think I am.” And despite his earlier breakdown in the shower, it doesn’t surprise him how much that’s true.
“We could call some more hookers,” House suggests. “Or order another 80-ounce steak for you to throw up.”
Wilson shakes his head. “No, no more of that. This right here…you and me…this is good. Just as it is.”
He holds House’s gaze, waiting for some kind of response. There’s something in House’s eyes, something deep and blue and sad, that makes Wilson almost feel like he’s crumbling again.
“You wanna order a pizza and watch The L Word?” House says at last.
Wilson’s expression says something like “sure,” and he watches as House heaves himself up in search of the phone and the number for Pizza Hut.
Mid-dial, though, House pauses. “So…you’re okay?”
He’s not, of course. He has a tumor that three of the worst days of his life hadn’t done a thing to help, and the thought of the growing mass in his chest makes him want to puke.
But he knows what House means, and he knows that House is trying, and he knows that the real answer to House’s question is yes - he’s okay.
They’ll have to talk about it, really talk about it, sometime. But not today. Today they will sit and eat disgustingly greasy pizza and mock crappy TV shows on mute, and Wilson doesn’t intend to cast a shadow on any of that for House - or for himself.
“Get pepperoni and sausage and mushrooms, and - oh, what the hell, get everything on it,” Wilson orders. “Just no olives. And see if you can get that cute blonde to deliver.”
The corners of House’s lips twitch upwards - just a little, but it’s there - and Wilson hides a smile of his own.
It’s not enough. Not yet.
But it’s a start.
* * * * *
Fin
Author: rslhilson
Rating: T
Summary: Post-"Post Mortem" fic, set immediately thereafter.
Spoilers: 8x19, "The C Word" and 8x20, "Post Mortem."
Pairings: H/W friendship (slash goggles optional)
Disclaimer: Still own nothingAuthor's Note: This actually started out pretty dreary, and then I read writerdot's post-ep fic here and it made me smile, which I really needed...so I hope I made enough of a turnaround, though I couldn't eliminate all the angst. :)
* * * * *
He goes home with House after the scan. He doesn’t want to be alone - they’ve been through too much together lately for him to want to be alone - and if House wants to be alone, well, too bad. This is his cancer, his life, his death. Not House’s.
House sits awkwardly down in the armchair when they finally make it back to the apartment. Wilson mutters something about needing a shower, barely noticing House’s nod from the corner of his eye.
He’s not really sure what he’s doing here, using House’s shampoo and House’s soap and letting House’s hot water rush over his skin. As he lathers, he thinks of how often he’s done this - how often he’s stayed over and filled House’s bathroom with steam - so why should this time be any different, other than what if it’s his last?
God, he’s shaking. Why is he shaking? It’s not even cold - the water is practically burning his skin. Suddenly his body feels like it’s folding in on itself, and as he wraps his arms around his stomach he realizes that he’s doubled over, practically heaving for breath.
Roughly, he shakes his head, using a hand on the tiled wall to force himself back up. No more of this - not today. A few more quick rinses to rub the red out of his eyes. He’ll blame the shampoo if he has to.
Back in the living room, House hasn’t moved from the armchair, though he’s turned on a hockey game rerun on barely audible volume. There’s a beer in his hand, and an unopened one for Wilson - who’s thrown on one of several jeans and t-shirts that he’s always kept here - waiting on the coffee table.
Hesitating, Wilson parks himself on the armrest of the couch. Neither of them has sat on the actual couch since…since that, and he doesn’t particularly feel like putting the past behind him at the moment.
“Shouldn’t you be blow-drying your hair?” House asks.
Wilson runs his fingers through wet strands, only slightly self-conscious. “I think Kyle would let it air-dry. Sounds like a risk he would take.”
“I told you - I can live without Kyle.”
There’s silence as the hockey sticks clatter around on the television screen. Wilson breathes deeply, House’s scent on his hair and skin enveloping him. His gaze lingers on the game just long enough for the puck to make it safely into the net, and he turns to his friend again.
“You’re going to be okay, House.”
He knows it’s not enough. Not yet, anyway. But as much as he’d made it his own crazy road trip, and as much as it’s still his cancer and his life and his death, none of this was ever going to be just his. It couldn’t be. He’d known it as soon as he’d seen the x-rays, and he’d made it real as soon as he’d plopped himself down on House’s couch for three days of chemo-induced Hell.
“You’re not,” House points out quietly.
“No,” Wilson agrees. “But right now…right now, I think I am.” And despite his earlier breakdown in the shower, it doesn’t surprise him how much that’s true.
“We could call some more hookers,” House suggests. “Or order another 80-ounce steak for you to throw up.”
Wilson shakes his head. “No, no more of that. This right here…you and me…this is good. Just as it is.”
He holds House’s gaze, waiting for some kind of response. There’s something in House’s eyes, something deep and blue and sad, that makes Wilson almost feel like he’s crumbling again.
“You wanna order a pizza and watch The L Word?” House says at last.
Wilson’s expression says something like “sure,” and he watches as House heaves himself up in search of the phone and the number for Pizza Hut.
Mid-dial, though, House pauses. “So…you’re okay?”
He’s not, of course. He has a tumor that three of the worst days of his life hadn’t done a thing to help, and the thought of the growing mass in his chest makes him want to puke.
But he knows what House means, and he knows that House is trying, and he knows that the real answer to House’s question is yes - he’s okay.
They’ll have to talk about it, really talk about it, sometime. But not today. Today they will sit and eat disgustingly greasy pizza and mock crappy TV shows on mute, and Wilson doesn’t intend to cast a shadow on any of that for House - or for himself.
“Get pepperoni and sausage and mushrooms, and - oh, what the hell, get everything on it,” Wilson orders. “Just no olives. And see if you can get that cute blonde to deliver.”
The corners of House’s lips twitch upwards - just a little, but it’s there - and Wilson hides a smile of his own.
It’s not enough. Not yet.
But it’s a start.
* * * * *
Fin