post-"Son of Coma Guy" fic - working draft
Wrote this last night/this morning; wanted to get it out before tonight's episode contaminates the mood. It's patchy and unpolished, with blank spots and italic notes-to-self, mostly in the argument and Big Transition in the middle. I am too slow for this spec-fic business! Going to try the increasingly popular "ask your friends list for input on the first draft" method as I continue to work on it. No worries if you pass until it's all done.
Working Title: Untouchable
Pairing: House/Wilson UST
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: S3 up to "Son of Coma Guy"
Word Count: 2,000ish
A/N: I had a dream months ago that begged to be turned into the end of a H/W fic. "Son of Coma Guy" provided a good setup.
House coerces the EMTs into letting him ride in the Medevac 'copter with Gabriel's body. Even though he had Gabe take a dozen aspirin as a precaution, he needs to ensure that the heart remains viable in transit. Otherwise everything that happened today-the miraculous awakening, the soul-baring revelations, a father's self-sacrifice so his dying son might live-will have been for naught.
So Wilson drives back to Princeton with only a handful of candy wrappers and echoes of rapid-fire conversation for company.
[Wilson's reflections... What he learned about House… A man he didn't know yesterday is dead and a teenager he doesn't know now will probably live... He'd never seen House perform euthanasia, and as he'd heard Cuddy tell House over the phone, this was different: it was assisted suicide for someone who wasn't already dying.]
Halfway home, his stomach starts grumbling. He fishes around in the wreckage on the passenger seat without looking away from the road. His searching fingers find only crinkling plastic and sticky foil: All empty. He winces at a second, louder gurgle. Should've wrapped up that hoagie.
[Stops at a gas station for something.] The credit card processor won't work, so he pays in cash. He makes a mental note to stop at the first-floor ATM again to replenish what he dished out today.
Despite the stop, he makes it back to the hospital in an hour and a half. He parks by the main entrance, figuring he'll meet House in one of their offices. They'll be throwing House out of the surgical suite any minute now, if he hasn't been banished already. Then Cuddy will probably want them both in her office for an interrogation that will put Tritter to shame and which House will handle just as flippantly.
Crap. Tritter. Wilson sags in his seat. With all the crazy events of the day, he almost managed to forget about the investigation that's threatening to swell and engulf him along with the man who got him into this mess. This morning he was upset about lying about the forged signatures. After tonight, he can add the somewhat more concerning "accessory to murder" to his list of offenses.
He grips the steering wheel, closes his eyes and takes five deep, measured breaths. Panic later. House now. Then interrogation. Then dinner. Then bed. He switches off the ignition, grabs his satchel, gets out of the car and heads inside.
* * *
No trip to the principal's office, as it turns out, for which he is grateful. No lecture on playing hooky, either. He suspects he'll be getting a call first thing in the morning, after he's had some time to recover.
But Cuddy stands fairly low on Wilson's list of things to be worried about at the moment. His accounts have been frozen. He can't access his own money. And House's fellows were questioned this afternoon. Tritter's creeping closer. As their conversation by the ATM just proved, House is still brushing off the whole affair, but Wilson can see the hairline fractures forming in his façade. A week ago he would have been happy to know that someone found a way to take House down a peg. Now that he's becoming entangled in House's web of lies and recklessness, however, the last thing he wants to see is this hesitation, this hint of fear in his friend's eyes. Tonight, House looks as tired as Wilson feels. That doesn't bode well for either of them.
Wilson walks away from the cash machine without waiting; he knows House will follow, and with his own defeated gait he also knows it won't be difficult for House to catch up. Sure enough, House is half a step ahead of him by the time they round the next corner.
When they pause at the front doors where they're supposed to part ways for their respective vehicles, House gives him a look that lets Wilson know he's too exhausted to want to ride his bike home. Wilson's not feeling fully conscious himself, but he nods and leads the way back to his car. As if they haven't spent enough time in it today.
They don't talk the whole way back to House's apartment.
* * *
House's idea of getting dinner is to slap a twenty into Wilson's hand and tell him to call in for whatever he wants. Then he disappears down the hall to take a shower.
Wilson stares at the wrinkled bill, thinking about how this wasn't quite the situation he had in mind all those times he wished House would pay for food for a change. He snaps out of it when he hears the showerhead sputter to life and the first pulses of water drum against the tub. Dinner. He doesn't feel like Chinese, or Italian, or Thai, or Indian. He wants something simple, plain and preferably warm. Soup, maybe. He leaves the money on the table by the door and walks into the kitchen to see if House has anything edible lying around that he can assemble into some kind of meal.
Along with eggs, milk, orange juice, butter, most of a six-pack and a collection of rotting vegetables, there's half a loaf of bread and a plastic-wrapped hunk of cheddar cheese in the fridge. He squints; something seems off. He can't put his finger on what, though, so he grabs the bread and cheese and puts them on the island. Then he slides out the crisper, holds it at arm's length and carries it over to the cabinet under the sink where House keeps his garbage bin. When he opens the left door, the bin isn't there. He stands bewildered for a moment, then tries the right door and finds it on that side. Weird. He dumps the mess into the garbage and puts the drawer back.
[tries the cabinets and finds they're all out of order, some stuff knocked over].
He frowns. House's kitchen may never be well-stocked, but it's always neat and organized. He realizes that that's what was bothering him about the fridge-some of the items were in the wrong places. The bread was a shelf lower than usual, the cheese beside it instead of in the dairy drawer, the egg carton sideways and in the wrong corner.
Then he figures out why: Tritter.
He and his guys must have searched the kitchen, too, combing through the fridge, drawers and cabinets and shoving everything back haphazardly when they found whatever pill bottles House had squirrelled away behind the spice rack or in a pot or wherever he'd been hiding them. Or House shoved everything back when he came home that day, and he's been fixing things as he uses them.
Wilson steps out into the living room. Now that he's looking for it, he sees it everywhere: [books in the wrong places, piles mixed up, etc].
He closes his eyes. It's only a matter of time before plainclothes officers start sniffing around his office. His hotel room. The hotel room that will only be his for as long as his last payment holds out.
[Wilson goes back into the kitchen, makes grilled cheese and maybe heats up a can of soup. House comes out in t-shirt and sweatpants, grabs wine or two beers. Either they're silent or House makes some crack about how Wilson can't bring himself to spend House's money.
They sit on the couch and start eating. Wilson worried. House vulnerable from opening up so much today. Both affected by Gabriel's death.]
They drink a silent toast to Gabriel, and neither of them turns on the television.
Eventually, predictably, House is the first to speak. [Mentions the frozen accounts, probably out of guilt. Subject comes up of how long until Wilson will have to check out of the hotel]
"And then?"
Wilson takes a bite of his sandwich. "I don't want to talk about it."
House takes a bigger bite of his own; it's a small miracle that Wilson understands his garbled, "You brought it up."
[transition: Wilson sacrificing himself for House]
"I didn't ask you to ."
"No, you didn't. You shouldn't have to. I'm your friend. Friends help each other. Protect each other."
[Find a place for this:]
"You may as well stay tonight. It'll be late when the beer wears off, and I'll need a ride in the morning."
"It's already late, House," Wilson reminds him, but he knows he'll be taking him up on the offer. He needs a home tonight instead of a hotel.
"In the car. You never answered Gabe's question."
"Have you ever loved anyone else?"
"I love my mother."
"Don't be glib."
House looks away.
"House."
"See, this is why I didn't want you coming along."
"House."
House meets his gaze again. He shakes his head to the side, once, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet and rough. "Don't push this."
"Did it ever occur to you to wonder why I do all of this?"
"I don't have to wonder; you keep telling me."
[Use this line? House murmurs or accuses, defensive:] "You love everybody."
[They're standing close to each other, no longer arguing, not quite admitting what they're acknowledging after all these years. They embrace, or rather House lets Wilson embrace him. Wilson closes his eyes.]
He presses his face into the crook of House's neck: skin and warmth and soap and slept-in cotton. House's stubble rasps against his ear. He can't feel the scar from the bullet wound.
He lets out a ragged breath when House brings his left hand up to rest on the middle of his back. They're rocking slightly, slowly, left to right and back again. He doesn't know which of them initiated the gentle sway, and he's certain that, like children playing with a Ouija board, they'll both deny being the source of the movement. But he doesn't care, so long as it keeps going.
He starts stroking his thumb along House's shoulder blade. At first it provokes no response, but then House rubs his cheek once against Wilson's jaw, lifting and settling back in nearly the same position: a nuzzle disguised as readjustment.
Wilson draws back without letting go. House raises his head in return. [Their faces inches apart, the intensity of House's eyes] He can feel his own breath as it brushes against House's nose and mouth and curls back towards him. He leans into the remaining space between them. Their lips barely touch-just enough of a dry, feathery brush to trigger that surface nerve that needs to be pressed before it will stop tingling.
There's a thump-the tip of House's cane on the hardwood floor-and House pulls away. He swears once, softly. Then he's gone-out of Wilson's embrace, out of the room.
Silence.
Wilson stands alone in the middle of the living room looking at the floor, his arms limp at his sides. His face and body gradually cool where House was touching him. He tilts his head up at the ceiling and squeezes his eyes shut, grinding out an oath of his own. He rubs the heel of his hand into his lower lip, silencing the twinging nerve.
He knows House does not want to be followed. He knows also that what he just witnessed was House closing himself off, making himself once more untouchable in all the ways that matter.
After inhaling and releasing a deep breath, he walks slowly down the hall.
House stands at the foot of his bed with his back to the door, leaning on his cane, staring at the mattress. Wilson leans one shoulder against the doorjamb. His chest feels tight.
"House," he begins, not knowing what he wants to say.
It doesn't matter anyway; without turning around, House says, "The blanket and pillow are in the closet."
Wilson swallows. He doesn't trust his voice. He does know that if House would just look at him, he'd be able to read everything in Wilson's eyes, and then it would be all right.
House straightens, turns, and limps past him into the bathroom without meeting his gaze. He turns on the tap and uncaps his toothpaste.
Wilson follows his progress with increasing misery. "House, I-"
"Good night," House says around his foamy toothbrush. He won't even look at Wilson in the mirror.
Wilson stands there for another few moments, then turns and walks back into the living room.
[gets the bedclothes out of the post-Tritter mess in the closet] He flips off the light. While his eyes adjust to the darkness, he undresses down to his undershirt and shorts, laying his clothes out on the armchair for the morning. He does not think about House settling into bed in the other room, the dozen other ways he could have handled things tonight, the feel of House against his cheek and in his arms, how close they came to-
He tucks the sheet into the couch and fluffs the pillow as best he can, then lies down with the blanket. The room is chilly and quiet. He presses his back into the leather cushions and curls up like he used to do in his sleeping bag at summer camp after they'd told ghost stories around the fire.
When he falls asleep, he dreams of empty ATMs and House turning his back on him.
* * *
P.S. New filter for House works-in-progress. Don't know how often I'll use it. Say the word if you want out.
Working Title: Untouchable
Pairing: House/Wilson UST
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: S3 up to "Son of Coma Guy"
Word Count: 2,000ish
A/N: I had a dream months ago that begged to be turned into the end of a H/W fic. "Son of Coma Guy" provided a good setup.
House coerces the EMTs into letting him ride in the Medevac 'copter with Gabriel's body. Even though he had Gabe take a dozen aspirin as a precaution, he needs to ensure that the heart remains viable in transit. Otherwise everything that happened today-the miraculous awakening, the soul-baring revelations, a father's self-sacrifice so his dying son might live-will have been for naught.
So Wilson drives back to Princeton with only a handful of candy wrappers and echoes of rapid-fire conversation for company.
[Wilson's reflections... What he learned about House… A man he didn't know yesterday is dead and a teenager he doesn't know now will probably live... He'd never seen House perform euthanasia, and as he'd heard Cuddy tell House over the phone, this was different: it was assisted suicide for someone who wasn't already dying.]
Halfway home, his stomach starts grumbling. He fishes around in the wreckage on the passenger seat without looking away from the road. His searching fingers find only crinkling plastic and sticky foil: All empty. He winces at a second, louder gurgle. Should've wrapped up that hoagie.
[Stops at a gas station for something.] The credit card processor won't work, so he pays in cash. He makes a mental note to stop at the first-floor ATM again to replenish what he dished out today.
Despite the stop, he makes it back to the hospital in an hour and a half. He parks by the main entrance, figuring he'll meet House in one of their offices. They'll be throwing House out of the surgical suite any minute now, if he hasn't been banished already. Then Cuddy will probably want them both in her office for an interrogation that will put Tritter to shame and which House will handle just as flippantly.
Crap. Tritter. Wilson sags in his seat. With all the crazy events of the day, he almost managed to forget about the investigation that's threatening to swell and engulf him along with the man who got him into this mess. This morning he was upset about lying about the forged signatures. After tonight, he can add the somewhat more concerning "accessory to murder" to his list of offenses.
He grips the steering wheel, closes his eyes and takes five deep, measured breaths. Panic later. House now. Then interrogation. Then dinner. Then bed. He switches off the ignition, grabs his satchel, gets out of the car and heads inside.
* * *
No trip to the principal's office, as it turns out, for which he is grateful. No lecture on playing hooky, either. He suspects he'll be getting a call first thing in the morning, after he's had some time to recover.
But Cuddy stands fairly low on Wilson's list of things to be worried about at the moment. His accounts have been frozen. He can't access his own money. And House's fellows were questioned this afternoon. Tritter's creeping closer. As their conversation by the ATM just proved, House is still brushing off the whole affair, but Wilson can see the hairline fractures forming in his façade. A week ago he would have been happy to know that someone found a way to take House down a peg. Now that he's becoming entangled in House's web of lies and recklessness, however, the last thing he wants to see is this hesitation, this hint of fear in his friend's eyes. Tonight, House looks as tired as Wilson feels. That doesn't bode well for either of them.
Wilson walks away from the cash machine without waiting; he knows House will follow, and with his own defeated gait he also knows it won't be difficult for House to catch up. Sure enough, House is half a step ahead of him by the time they round the next corner.
When they pause at the front doors where they're supposed to part ways for their respective vehicles, House gives him a look that lets Wilson know he's too exhausted to want to ride his bike home. Wilson's not feeling fully conscious himself, but he nods and leads the way back to his car. As if they haven't spent enough time in it today.
They don't talk the whole way back to House's apartment.
* * *
House's idea of getting dinner is to slap a twenty into Wilson's hand and tell him to call in for whatever he wants. Then he disappears down the hall to take a shower.
Wilson stares at the wrinkled bill, thinking about how this wasn't quite the situation he had in mind all those times he wished House would pay for food for a change. He snaps out of it when he hears the showerhead sputter to life and the first pulses of water drum against the tub. Dinner. He doesn't feel like Chinese, or Italian, or Thai, or Indian. He wants something simple, plain and preferably warm. Soup, maybe. He leaves the money on the table by the door and walks into the kitchen to see if House has anything edible lying around that he can assemble into some kind of meal.
Along with eggs, milk, orange juice, butter, most of a six-pack and a collection of rotting vegetables, there's half a loaf of bread and a plastic-wrapped hunk of cheddar cheese in the fridge. He squints; something seems off. He can't put his finger on what, though, so he grabs the bread and cheese and puts them on the island. Then he slides out the crisper, holds it at arm's length and carries it over to the cabinet under the sink where House keeps his garbage bin. When he opens the left door, the bin isn't there. He stands bewildered for a moment, then tries the right door and finds it on that side. Weird. He dumps the mess into the garbage and puts the drawer back.
[tries the cabinets and finds they're all out of order, some stuff knocked over].
He frowns. House's kitchen may never be well-stocked, but it's always neat and organized. He realizes that that's what was bothering him about the fridge-some of the items were in the wrong places. The bread was a shelf lower than usual, the cheese beside it instead of in the dairy drawer, the egg carton sideways and in the wrong corner.
Then he figures out why: Tritter.
He and his guys must have searched the kitchen, too, combing through the fridge, drawers and cabinets and shoving everything back haphazardly when they found whatever pill bottles House had squirrelled away behind the spice rack or in a pot or wherever he'd been hiding them. Or House shoved everything back when he came home that day, and he's been fixing things as he uses them.
Wilson steps out into the living room. Now that he's looking for it, he sees it everywhere: [books in the wrong places, piles mixed up, etc].
He closes his eyes. It's only a matter of time before plainclothes officers start sniffing around his office. His hotel room. The hotel room that will only be his for as long as his last payment holds out.
[Wilson goes back into the kitchen, makes grilled cheese and maybe heats up a can of soup. House comes out in t-shirt and sweatpants, grabs wine or two beers. Either they're silent or House makes some crack about how Wilson can't bring himself to spend House's money.
They sit on the couch and start eating. Wilson worried. House vulnerable from opening up so much today. Both affected by Gabriel's death.]
They drink a silent toast to Gabriel, and neither of them turns on the television.
Eventually, predictably, House is the first to speak. [Mentions the frozen accounts, probably out of guilt. Subject comes up of how long until Wilson will have to check out of the hotel]
"And then?"
Wilson takes a bite of his sandwich. "I don't want to talk about it."
House takes a bigger bite of his own; it's a small miracle that Wilson understands his garbled, "You brought it up."
[transition: Wilson sacrificing himself for House]
"I didn't ask you to ."
"No, you didn't. You shouldn't have to. I'm your friend. Friends help each other. Protect each other."
[Find a place for this:]
"You may as well stay tonight. It'll be late when the beer wears off, and I'll need a ride in the morning."
"It's already late, House," Wilson reminds him, but he knows he'll be taking him up on the offer. He needs a home tonight instead of a hotel.
"In the car. You never answered Gabe's question."
"Have you ever loved anyone else?"
"I love my mother."
"Don't be glib."
House looks away.
"House."
"See, this is why I didn't want you coming along."
"House."
House meets his gaze again. He shakes his head to the side, once, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet and rough. "Don't push this."
"Did it ever occur to you to wonder why I do all of this?"
"I don't have to wonder; you keep telling me."
[Use this line? House murmurs or accuses, defensive:] "You love everybody."
[They're standing close to each other, no longer arguing, not quite admitting what they're acknowledging after all these years. They embrace, or rather House lets Wilson embrace him. Wilson closes his eyes.]
He presses his face into the crook of House's neck: skin and warmth and soap and slept-in cotton. House's stubble rasps against his ear. He can't feel the scar from the bullet wound.
He lets out a ragged breath when House brings his left hand up to rest on the middle of his back. They're rocking slightly, slowly, left to right and back again. He doesn't know which of them initiated the gentle sway, and he's certain that, like children playing with a Ouija board, they'll both deny being the source of the movement. But he doesn't care, so long as it keeps going.
He starts stroking his thumb along House's shoulder blade. At first it provokes no response, but then House rubs his cheek once against Wilson's jaw, lifting and settling back in nearly the same position: a nuzzle disguised as readjustment.
Wilson draws back without letting go. House raises his head in return. [Their faces inches apart, the intensity of House's eyes] He can feel his own breath as it brushes against House's nose and mouth and curls back towards him. He leans into the remaining space between them. Their lips barely touch-just enough of a dry, feathery brush to trigger that surface nerve that needs to be pressed before it will stop tingling.
There's a thump-the tip of House's cane on the hardwood floor-and House pulls away. He swears once, softly. Then he's gone-out of Wilson's embrace, out of the room.
Silence.
Wilson stands alone in the middle of the living room looking at the floor, his arms limp at his sides. His face and body gradually cool where House was touching him. He tilts his head up at the ceiling and squeezes his eyes shut, grinding out an oath of his own. He rubs the heel of his hand into his lower lip, silencing the twinging nerve.
He knows House does not want to be followed. He knows also that what he just witnessed was House closing himself off, making himself once more untouchable in all the ways that matter.
After inhaling and releasing a deep breath, he walks slowly down the hall.
House stands at the foot of his bed with his back to the door, leaning on his cane, staring at the mattress. Wilson leans one shoulder against the doorjamb. His chest feels tight.
"House," he begins, not knowing what he wants to say.
It doesn't matter anyway; without turning around, House says, "The blanket and pillow are in the closet."
Wilson swallows. He doesn't trust his voice. He does know that if House would just look at him, he'd be able to read everything in Wilson's eyes, and then it would be all right.
House straightens, turns, and limps past him into the bathroom without meeting his gaze. He turns on the tap and uncaps his toothpaste.
Wilson follows his progress with increasing misery. "House, I-"
"Good night," House says around his foamy toothbrush. He won't even look at Wilson in the mirror.
Wilson stands there for another few moments, then turns and walks back into the living room.
[gets the bedclothes out of the post-Tritter mess in the closet] He flips off the light. While his eyes adjust to the darkness, he undresses down to his undershirt and shorts, laying his clothes out on the armchair for the morning. He does not think about House settling into bed in the other room, the dozen other ways he could have handled things tonight, the feel of House against his cheek and in his arms, how close they came to-
He tucks the sheet into the couch and fluffs the pillow as best he can, then lies down with the blanket. The room is chilly and quiet. He presses his back into the leather cushions and curls up like he used to do in his sleeping bag at summer camp after they'd told ghost stories around the fire.
When he falls asleep, he dreams of empty ATMs and House turning his back on him.
* * *
P.S. New filter for House works-in-progress. Don't know how often I'll use it. Say the word if you want out.