Milk, Silk, a Bedspread or a Quilt (R)
Posted to house_wilson and housefic
Title: Milk, Silk, a Bedspread or a Quilt
Author: Dee Laundry
Pairing: House-Wilson friendship (past relationships mentioned)
Rating: R for adult themes
WARNING for potentially disturbing backstory for Wilson. This is not a fun story.
Words: 5822
Summary: Cobwebs fall on an old skipping record; Wilson feels he’s doomed to repeat the past.
Notes: Set a few months after episode 5-16. Spoilers to that point, but no spoilers for future episodes. Thank you to daisylily and nightdog_barks for their careful and extremely helpful beta.
It’s Wednesday at three, a very nothing part of the week, and House is reading Us Weekly and the New England Journal of Medicine at the same time to see if he can make them both remotely interesting. It happens to be working, so when Wilson walks in the room, House doesn’t bother looking up.
“I’m not doing this because of you,” Wilson says.
“You’re not standing in my office because of me? Do you just like the view?”
“I’m not -” Wilson stops on the cusp of saying another word, intriguing House enough for him to drag his attention away from the pleasing mélange of macabre and sublime.
Wilson is pinching the bridge of his nose and doing the bite-bottom-lip-and-lick thing at the same time. It’s a very weird look.
“According to my Aunt Sarah,” House says, “your face has an extremely high probability of freezing that way.”
Wilson sighs, drops his hand, inspects the carpet. “I’m going to suggest Tuvek for my replacement, because of his skills at fundraising and administration, but you should probably go to Bates for consults. Better clinical skills and used to dealing with difficult patients. Or colleagues.”
House nods, even though Wilson’s still not looking at him. “Same deal as when you were on leave. You taking a vacation?”
The nose pinch is back, accompanied by a palming of the neck. Wilson’s gestures are all over the place - whatever this is, it’s not good.
“I’m... quitting,” Wilson admits. “Not because of you.”
“Then because of what?”
“Not here,” Wilson says. “Not now.” He turns on his heel and is at the door before House can get out of his chair. “I have to go tell Cuddy.”
“I’ll come with you,” House says.
“No!” Wilson snaps, and House is knocked back by the determination. “Later,” Wilson says more quietly, more gently. “You can ask me later, somewhere other than the hospital.”
House watches Wilson walk down the hall and then picks up the phone.
***
Despite his best efforts, House doesn’t see Wilson at all for the next two days. An interesting variety of other people drop by instead.
“What did you do?” Cuddy demands, thirty minutes after Wilson headed to her office.
“Left a flaming bag of crap at the base commander’s front door.”
Cuddy freezes, chest mid-heave (nice). “What?”
“When I was six,” House clarifies. “To be fair, it wasn’t intended for the base commander, it was meant for his dickhead son who had pushed me into the dirt during recess for no reason at all.”
It takes Cuddy a few seconds to catch up, during which her eyes blink rapidly and House decides she really ought to cut back on the mascara.
“To Wilson,” she says, as the blinkity-blink stops. “What did you do to Wilson? He’s resigning.”
“Yeah, that’s what he said.” House has his theories, of course, as to why that is, but they’re in a jumbled pack, like runners at the start of the Boston Marathon. None of the ideas has shaken off the others and emerged from the undifferentiated horde yet. Still, it won’t hurt to assert: “It’s not because of me.”
“You never want to think it’s about you.” Cuddy looks up to the ceiling and then back down at House. “Scratch that. You always think it’s about you, because you think everything is about you -”
“Can you prove everything’s not?”
“But,” Cuddy continues with a weird Wilson-like sigh-slash-groan, “you never want to think it’s your fault.”
“Who does want to think it’s their fault?” He watches her eyes narrow and then concedes, “Besides Wilson.”
“Fix it,” Cuddy commands, fingertips hitting House’s desks as she leans in over it. “I’m going to stall the paperwork, but you have to fix whatever problem it is you’ve caused and get him to withdraw his resignation.”
She’s attempting to loom, and damn near accomplishing it. Interesting.
“It really bothers you that he’s resigning.”
She whips back up to standing. “Of course it does. He’s a valuable member of this hospital.”
“Huh.” House is aware of Wilson’s value to the hospital, of course, but he hadn’t been certain that Cuddy was. He ignores the deepening disgruntlement of her features to ask, “What did Wilson say when you asked him why?”
“He said it was better if I didn’t know. Which is another reason I’m assuming you have something to do with it.”
By the time House has finished incorporating that new bit of data into his pack of theories - which have changed along the way from runners to wolves - Cuddy’s stance and voice have both softened.
“House,” she says, “he belongs here. Try to get him to see reason.”
Reason, both of them know, is not one of Wilson’s strong suits. “Lucky for you I like a challenge.”
“Lucky for all of us,” she says before heading out the door.
House’s next odd visitor shows up an hour later.
“Dr. House,” says the man in the obscenely expensive navy suit.
“Nicky-Boy,” House replies.
The passive mask slips the tiniest bit to show a hint of discontent before being put firmly back into place. “It’s Mr. Nicholson. Or feel free to call me Frank.”
“Something tells me ‘frank’ would not be an entirely accurate thing to call you.”
The attorney’s mask tightens that much more, as he avoids the subject entirely. “Dr. House, I’ll be brief. My reason for visiting you today is that legal advice my department has been asked to tender hinges on your willingness to carry out your ethical duty of maintaining the confidentiality of all statements made between yourself and Dr. James Wilson of the Oncology department of this hospital concerning investigations made for valid medical reasons into a patient of his who had had interaction with a patient of yours.”
Fucking lawyers. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m ascertaining your willingness to -”
“Yeah, yeah, enough of the babble. A patient of his interacted with a patient of mine...” Some of Wilson’s patients become House’s patients, but that apparently isn’t the case here. Interacted... investigations... all statements; fuck.
“This was almost three years ago?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” But apparently his pupils are at liberty to indicate how right House is.
“And my patient ‘interacted’ by giving his patient herpes.”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” Another yes. Fuck. Why is this coming up again after being dead and buried - literally - for so long?
House glares at the supercilious asshole wasting space in his office. “I’ve kept my mouth shut so far; what makes Wilson think I’d open it up now?”
Another tightening of features, and House is tempted to chuck the nearest heavy object at Nicky-Boy, to break his perfectly straight elongated nose so the man’ll make himself cross-eyed the next time he tries to stare haughtily down it.
“Dr. Wilson was adamant that you would honor confidentiality, but given certain... matters regarding you that have come to the attention of my office over the past several years, I felt it best to put in a personal word.”
“Word put in,” House says, and turns toward his computer. No sound of the door opening, so House leans his head back over his shoulder to glare at the asshole. “That means get the hell out.”
When Nicholson oozes his way back to Slime World, House picks up the phone again.
***
The next morning brings Chase with an excellent-smelling container of caffeinated goodness.
“Espresso,” Chase says as he hands the cup to House. “Wilson gave me fifty bucks to bring it to you.”
House raises an eyebrow.
Chase smirks and continues, “And I’ll be refunding the fifty bucks he paid me not to tell you that.” He pulls up the guest chair and wraps both hands around a second paper cup that he’d brought. “What’s up with him?”
“Wilson?” House breathes in the strong aroma. “He’s resigning.”
“I know that. Ninety percent of the hospital knows that. But ‘Why?’ is the question.”
“Why is one of the questions. Another is what illicit substance is in this secret container he gave to you to give to me.”
Chase chuckles. “It’s just espresso. I bought it myself downstairs.”
“Hmm,” House says and risks a sip. It tastes better than cafeteria espresso has any right to taste.
“I did wonder why coffee was so important that Wilson would spend a hundred dollars on it.”
“He spent a hundred on a hoagie for a guy he didn’t even know,” House reflects. At Chase’s lost expression, he rolls his eyes. “Wilson is matchmaking.”
“Matchmaking?” Chase rocks back in his chair and considers for a second. “You mean, you and me? No offense, House, but I’m quite satisfied with the girlfriend I have now.”
“Well, she is much better at testicle torture than I am, so that makes sense.” Without waiting for the feeble denial he knows will be completely untrue, House pushes on. “Wilson thinks that caffeine and the shared mystery of what the hell he’s up to will help us bond. Become friends.”
Chase shrugs. “People have become friends over less.”
“Yeah.” House hands his cup back to Chase and gets up from the chair. “A lot less. I’ll see you around.”
He leaves a bemused Australian and the two cups of penance behind in favor of another search for Wilson, one that proves as fruitless as the others he’s made.
***
He doesn’t bring Wilson to ground until late that evening, finally cornering the man in his own apartment. “OK, Jacob Marley,” House says as he pushes past Wilson and into the living room. “I’ve been visited by the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future - out of order, but still - so where’s the boy I give the farthing to for the Christmas goose?”
“It was a shilling,” Wilson replies, “but other than that, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Genuine confusion on his face, and bags under his eyes, and this whole thing sucks. Not being able to keep up with House is just one crappy symptom.
“Shilling, farthing, who the hell cares?”
“A shilling was worth way more than a farthing,” Wilson says wearily. He hasn’t sat down, or even moved out of the foyer. “Symbolic of Scrooge’s newfound generosity and willingness to embrace life. What are you doing here?”
“You said I could interrogate you later,” House reminds him from the comfort of the couch - limited comfort, in that Wilson doesn’t seem inclined to join him.
“Oh.” Wilson rubs his neck. “I’m sorry. I’ve been really busy.” His eyes blink slowly. “What does that have to do with A Christmas Carol?”
Holding himself back from throttling his stupid passive bastard best friend, House explains, “Since you walked out of my office, I’ve had three visitors there. First was Cuddy, breathing hellfire and commanding me to fix whatever screwed up thing is happening in the present.” He waits for the lights to click on behind Wilson’s eyes at his stress on that word, and when it doesn’t, his anger ratchets higher. “I’m getting a fucking crick in my neck trying to look at you. Sit the hell down.”
Wilson moves more directly into House’s natural line of sight but still doesn’t sit. Fucker. House notices for the first time that the shelves lining the living room are half-empty, but he doesn’t have time to call Wilson on it now.
“You can’t fix it,” Wilson says with a sigh. “Because it’s not about you.”
“So you said. While conveniently leaving out what it is about. Fortunately, the Ghost of Christmas Past, Old Nick himself, clued me in.” He waits for Wilson to elaborate, in vain. “Grace has been dead over two years. Whoever’s suing you obviously doesn’t know the statute of limitations for medical malpractice.”
“The statute of limitations for sexual assault, which includes doctor-patient contact, is five years,” Wilson retorts. “But nobody’s suing me. I’m... being proactive.”
“Proactive,” House says. Wilson’s wandering now, pacing in an erratic oval. “Three years after the fact.”
Wilson lets out a strangled ha. “Better late than never.”
“You do know you’re not making any damn sense.”
That finally breaks Wilson out of his malaise, and he stops his strange pacing in favor of throwing his arms in the air vehemently. “Sleeping with Grace was wrong! I stepped way, way over the line, having an affair with her; I violated the relationship we were supposed to have. Making amends for that makes total sense!”
“Except for the fact that she’s dead, and there’s no way you can make amends to her.”
“I can -” The anger rushes out of Wilson’s features, from head to toe, and dissipates into the floor. “I can stop it from happening again.”
As House’s heart catches in his chest, he asks, “You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?”
“I already have.”
House snorts in anger. “Kill yourself. You’re not going to kill yourself.”
“No.” Wilson has drifted toward the coat rack, and pulls down his jacket. “I don’t deserve that.”
“You’re not allowed to commit suicide, you know.” Wilson actually looks up at that, seeks eye contact; House gives it to him in full force. “You promised you wouldn’t walk away again.”
Wilson’s eyes are sad as he nods. “I’m not walking away from you, House. I’m just... not going to be available for a while.”
Such a dumbass. Such an idiot. He’s probably already started making notes in a copy of Prison for Dummies, too sunk in his guilt-wallow to realize that there is no way in hell House will let that happen. But time for that discussion later.
“Not available,” House echoes. “That’s why you sent Christmas Future.”
“What?” Wilson asks, expression totally befuddled.
So slow. This sucks. “Chase. With the espresso?”
“Oh.” Wilson nods and says firmly, “He’s a good guy, House. You had fun bowling with him that one time, right? And you need an ally at the hospital, too; I want to know someone’s looking out for you.”
“‘Looking out’ for me? That’s code for ‘caring.’ You didn’t send Cameron why?”
Wilson actually smiles. “I’m pretty sure Cameron will take up the caring mantle on her own. Nothing wrong with having two people you can count on, though.” His smile lingers as he says, “Now get up. I have to go; I have an appointment.”
“I’ll go with you,” House offers as he stands up from the couch.
“No,” Wilson says firmly, old familiar look of exasperated stubbornness on his face. House has trouble not smiling at the sight.
“If you don’t let me come with you,” he says as he makes his way to the door at a pace carefully calculated to frustrate, “I’m going to follow you.”
“No, you’re not,” Wilson says confidently, hands on hips. “I talked to Kutner an hour ago, and your patient’s test results are due any minute.”
They’re inches away from each other now, closer than they usually stand. “Your friendship means more to me than this patient.”
“I know,” Wilson says quietly. “But our friendship’s not at risk, and the patient is.”
House nods once and leads Wilson out to the sidewalk. He watches as Wilson’s Volvo pulls out of its parking space, and as a beat-up station wagon drives by, going in the same direction.
Wilson has apparently forgotten that House has more than one way to follow him.
***
Lucas eats like a horse. House doesn’t know why he never noticed before. There’s seriously something like four days’ worth of calories on his plate, and it’s only breakfast.
At least House isn’t paying for it.
Around the straw sticking out of his orange juice, Lucas says, “The guy really likes cake.”
Not what House was expecting; he puts his coffee cup down. “Wilson spent last night in a bakery?”
“No,” Lucas says, and shovels a bite of eggs in his mouth. “Cake, the band. You had me bug his car, remember?” More eggs. “He played their album Fashion Nugget all the way there and all the way back.”
“All the way where?”
“Except ‘I Will Survive.’” Lucas has infuriatingly moved on to his bacon, which is crispy enough that it sprinkles all over his plate with every bite. “They do a cover of that disco song ‘I Will Survive,’ but he skipped it every time. Two guitar chords and blip, on to ‘Stickshifts and Safetybelts.’”
Grr. “Where did he go?”
“Fort Lee, New Jersey. Across the river from the Bronx.” Correctly reading the expression on House’s face, Lucas holds up a hand and pulls a notebook out of his back pocket. “Why, you want to know why, got it. Wilson visited, let me get the name -” He flips through to a particular page. “Ah. Kaye Dykeman, Ph.D., M.D. I Googled her while he was in there. She’s got both the medical degree and a doctorate in psychology, and specializes in gender and sexuality issues and sexual mental health.”
House would suspect Lucas was pulling his leg, if the whole thing wasn’t so typically Wilson. “A gender and sexuality specialist named Dykeman?”
“Yeah.” Lucas shrugs. “Truth in advertising, I guess. In the last few years, she seems to have focused on motivations and outcomes of inappropriate sexual relationships, including what she calls ‘crossing professional boundaries for sex.’” Lucas looks up from his notebook. “Wilson did it with a patient?”
“Shut up and finish your report.”
Lucas stuffs a forkful of pancake in his mouth and chews contemplatively. “Was she hot?”
“No, he bonked an ugly patient.” He waits a beat for Lucas to continue the report - the delay is driving him nuts - before spitting out, “What the hell did he say to this psychiatrist?”
“Oh. I don’t know.” Back to the bacon; House is going insane. “Couldn’t get close enough to hear; couldn’t even get in the building; so I just waited outside until he was done. He came out with some brochures in his hand, but I couldn’t see what they were. When he started driving, he took a couple of turns like he was going to go into New York, but then he didn’t. Just drove home.”
So far, so nothing. Damn it. “And then what?”
As he’s slurping on his orange juice again, Lucas spears his hash browns but manages to answer House before eating again. “Then nothing.”
“I paid you to bug his place.”
“I had bugged his place; he just didn’t do anything. Walked around for like two minutes, brushed his teeth, peed, and then, um.”
“What?”
Lucas shifts in his seat. “The guy doesn’t deserve any privacy at all?”
“A doctor has to know all the symptoms or he can’t diagnose.” When Lucas won’t give it up, House glares and prepares to drag it out of him. “You want to give him privacy, so... He jerked off?”
“Not that I could hear. He, um, cried. For like twenty minutes, and then I didn’t hear anything the rest of the night, so I guess he went to sleep.”
***
The day passes in a crawling blur or a blurry crawl. One or the other. Wilson is once again never anywhere that House can find him, until House sends out an all-hands search party with the news that House’s leg is killing him and he needs Wilson to take him home.
It’s not House’s leg that’s killing him, but he plays it up once Wilson is unearthed from the Legal Department, and he manages to get Nightingale out the door and into the Volvo.
“Turn left here,” House commands a few moments later.
“But that’s not the way to your place,” Wilson protests, even as he’s pulling the steering wheel counter-clockwise.
“We have to make another stop.”
“Why? Do you need stronger drugs?”
House stares at Wilson for a very long moment, astonished by this freaky show of generosity, until he remembers that his leg’s supposed to be in more pain than usual. Shaking his head, he says, “No, but the Thai delivery guy’s going to be pissed if we leave him standing on your doorstep the whole night.”
“My doorstep?” Wilson’s trying to look at House and the road at the same time, and almost managing it. “I thought you needed to get home.”
“Yeah,” House says. “I do.”
The delivery guy is not actually on the doorstep when they get to Wilson’s apartment, but he bounds up the stairs as Wilson’s unlocking the door. House only gets more nervous when Wilson walks inside without so much as a greeting for the smiling delivery dude. It doesn’t seem like he expects House to take care of it; it seems like he forgot any action would be needed at all.
This sucks.
Fortunately, all the food is in bags with handles, so House manages to get it in the door and dumped onto the dining room table. Wilson wanders back out of the bedroom, looking at nothing, and House snaps.
“That’s it,” he says.
“That’s what?” Wilson asks, and House has to grit his teeth.
“This. You.” He gestures toward the couch; the message finally sinks in, and Wilson plods to it and takes a seat. “You’re going to sit, and you’re going to tell me what’s going on.”
“I told you,” Wilson says, not meeting House’s eyes. “I’m resigning, getting away from patients, so that I don’t repeat my mistakes with Grace. My assault on Grace.”
“Assault?” Now House’s leg really is starting to bother him; he takes up a steady pacing. “Did you hit Grace?”
“No.”
“Push her? Shove her? Twist her arm, literally or figuratively?”
“I was never violent with her or, or...” He fumbles for the words; House keeps pacing. “Or mentally abusive, but that doesn’t change the fact that I took advantage of her. She was sick, and she needed me to take care of her, not make - I mean, fuck her.”
“Wilson, you’re an idiot, and you can be a dick sometimes, but you’re not a rapist. Checking yourself into a sexual offender program is going to brand you for the rest of your life. You’ll be lumped in with dentists who sodomize sedated patients and priests who make teenagers confess on their knees.”
Wilson’s head whips around to track House’s path across the hardwood floor. “How did you know I’m evaluating offender programs?”
“Evaluating them? Going to write them up on Yelp?”
“Figuring out which one would be most effective.” Wilson sinks back into the couch cushion.
“You mean most punitive.” Wilson’s dipped head only confirms what House already knew. “Dykeman’s feeding you this shit, isn’t she?”
“She’s not feeding me anything!” For the first time tonight, Wilson’s showing some fire. Figures it would be in defense of a damsel. “It’s my idea, my choice. I need help, intensive help, to make sure I never do what I did to Grace again. It has to be stopped. I have to be stopped.”
“Stopped. From the thing you already stopped doing three years ago.” House shakes his head, and paces harder. “This charlatan Dykeman is taking you for a fucking ride.”
“She’s not! I’ve been seeing her for over a year, on referral from my old psychiatrist, and she’s great. Just because -”
“A year?” Wilson’s a sneaky bastard, but House wouldn’t have thought he could pull something like this off for so long. “You’ve been planning to leave your job and ‘atone’ for Grace for a year? Then why didn’t you mention it when you left after Amber?”
“After Amber?” Wilson’s face falls into complete befuddlement and then clears. “No, my realization about Grace just came up when... Recently.” He lets out a heavy breath. “I’ve been seeing Kaye for... something else.”
Wilson’s eyes beg House not to go there, but when has House ever listened to them? “Something else. Something you had to be referred to a gender and sexuality specialist for. So either I’m going to have to start calling you Cherise or...”
“Yeah,” Wilson says with a sigh. “I’m gay. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t even really want to admit it to myself. Kaye’s been helping me work through it.”
“For a year. And you didn’t tell me.” He has no idea why he’s surprised - Wilson’s kept a lot from him over the years - but he is. “What the hell were you afraid of? Bisexuality’s in. You and Thirteen could’ve double-double-dated.”
Wilson sighs again. “I don’t even know what that is, but I’m not bisexual, House. I’m gay. I have been attracted to a couple of women in my life - Amber was the best of them - but that’s it.” Wilson’s knuckles press to his lips; his eyes fall close and then drift open again. “I slept with women I had no desire for, and married three women I didn’t love, just because they needed me, because I wanted to take care of them. And because I thought I could make myself normal.”
“Gay’s normal, Wilson.”
“Gay is normal,” Wilson agrees. “I’m not.”
“You -”
“The first time I ever ejaculated, it was into my brother’s mouth.”
House’s mind is a blank slate with only one thought written on it: I can’t have heard that right.
“I,” Wilson continues slowly, reluctantly, “...abused my brother. Sexually abused him. You’re the first person I’ve ever told.”
House remembers the big, jovial bear of a man he’s seen at two Wilson weddings and had dinner with a few other times. The one who looked at Wilson with such sincere fondness it made House slightly nauseated. “Tim?”
“No,” Wilson says, with a tremor running through his shoulders and neck. “He was a kid, pre-pubescent; no. It was Kyle.”
“Kyle,” House echoes. The one House hasn’t met, doesn’t know at all. The one who ran away. The one who...
“Wait,” House says. “The first time you ejaculated? How old were you?”
“Thirteen. The day after my bar mitzvah. Everyone was out except us, and Dad’s liquor cabinet was overflowing with leftovers. We raided it, figuring they wouldn’t notice any missing. A couple of drinks of rum, and we were making out, like usual, and then he... and I... We...” Wilson runs out of steam and doesn’t bother to finish his sentence.
This is insane, House thinks. Unreal. Then his brain clicks on a phrase Wilson just uttered. “‘Like usual’? You’d made out before then?”
“Yeah. Couple of times. And then it didn’t stop after that day, either. We kept - I kept...” Wilson screws his eyes shut and pinches his nose. “I abused my brother for over four months.”
“‘Abused.’ Really.” This is not making any sense at all. “You’re sure you’re not talking about Tim?”
Wilson’s face contorts in horrified disgust. “No, not Tim. He was a kid, a baby, no, never. I’m sick but I’m not a pedophile.” He shudders. “No. It was Kyle.”
“Wilson.” He always knew Wilson’s thinking was screwed up, but this is beyond twisted. “Kyle was seventeen.”
“Yes.”
“He was older; he was the one abusing you.”
“No, you don’t understand. He was sick, not well. He wasn’t responsible for his actions. We couldn’t hold anything against him; we had to stand up for him, take care of him, because he couldn’t take care of himself.”
Wilson’s parroting of his parents’ no doubt well-meant phrases about Kyle’s mental illness is making House’s stomach roil. “He was seventeen. You were thirteen.”
“I was a man; I was responsible. I should’ve protected him.”
Wilson’s eyes are growing suspiciously red; his knuckles keep pressing harder and harder into his lips.
House has no idea what to say.
“Wilson.”
“I ruined him. He went crazy because I loved him.”
Wilson’s eyes have a sheen to them, and now House knows what to say.
“You always fuck this shit up, Wilson.”
Eyes closed, Wilson nods. “Yes.”
“Moron.” House is beyond furious. “I can’t believe you made it through med school.” He plants himself in front of his stupid, stupid, stupid best friend and waits until he gets eye contact. “Correlation is not causation, you dumbass.”
“What?”
“You loved him and he went crazy. You didn’t cause a damn thing.”
“I -”
“You didn’t give Grace herpes. You didn’t give her cancer. You didn’t cause her to die. Yes, you had an affair with a patient, and you should pay... by never doing it again. Which you haven’t and you won’t.”
“It’s a pattern,” Wilson insists fervently. “With my brother, with Grace, I violated the relationship. I was supposed to just take care of them, not have sex with them. You have to admit, it’s disgusting! I’m depraved!”
“Yeah,” House snorts. “I admit it. I think you’re depraved and disgusting.” Wilson’s face contorts in something that looks like relief, and House is angry, angry, angry. “The way you crash yourself on the shoals every single goddamn chance you get. You can’t wait to sacrifice yourself, throw yourself under the bus, to try to save other people. Well, guess what. You can’t fix other people by destroying yourself.”
“Why can’t I? Why shouldn’t I? I try to, to help people who can still be helped. There’s nothing else for me than that! I’m wrecked; I’m... wrong, nothing, less than human, hopeless. Why not try to rescue the people who can still be saved?”
Those stupid eyes. House has always hated Wilson’s stupid eyes, so round, so rich, and the way they’re filled with desperation and despair now is just the icing on the motherfucking cake.
“You know what?” House snaps. “Fuck you. Fuck you!”
That knocks the bastard back and snaps a new livelier expression into his eyes. “What?”
“Fuck you, you asshole,” House repeats, as he gets right up into Wilson’s personal space, looming over the idiot gazing up at him from the couch. “You know how many people I’ve loved in my life?”
“What?”
“Do you know?” House grinds out, and refuses to let Wilson break eye contact.
“No, I -”
“Five. Five people in my life. My mother, my one grandmother, my college girlfriend, Stacy, and you. That’s it. And you have the nerve to sit there and imply that I’m so stupid that I’d throw my love away on someone who’s worthless.”
The sheen’s back, thicker, and then Wilson chokes on the single word “I,” and then his face is distorting, folding inward as he starts to cry in earnest. House’s arm is around Wilson’s shoulders; his other hand’s in Wilson’s hair. He didn’t tell his limbs to move, but move they did, and he clutches his best friend to him, Wilson’s head pressing into House’s torso.
“You went through shit, Wilson, and some of it stuck.” He doesn’t let Wilson shake his head, doesn’t let Wilson try to deny it. “You don’t need a sex offender program; you don’t need punishment. You need help to clear it all off so you can see who you are again.”
Wilson’s crying dies down enough for him to get out, “You’ve been through shit, and you always say you don’t need help.”
Bitter amusement springs up in House, and he laughs. “I’ve only had meaningful, long-lasting relationships with five people. Not exactly the sign of someone who doesn’t need help. But I’m functioning better than you at the moment.”
Wilson brings his arms up and wraps them around House’s waist for one quick squeeze before letting go and pulling away. House lets him sit back and then takes a couple steps to get some distance. He doesn’t go too far, though.
Wilson’s calmer now, and with House, not off in la-la land in his head, so House decides he can ask. “What I don’t get is why now. Grace is gone; Kyle is gone. So what brought up this sudden need to atone?”
“Kyle’s not gone, not any more,” Wilson says with a small curl of lips, barely enough to be a smile. “He called me last week, and I went to see him. He’s been in a psych facility in New York for several weeks, on meds and doing so much better, lucid and coherent, and just about like he was before he got sick.”
“Seeing someone you love healthy cracked you?”
Wilson ignores that completely. “He apologized.” He shakes his head. “For kissing me, touching me, having sex with me. I told him it wasn’t true. That his brain had made it up. I’d spent more than twenty-five years being convinced it never happened, and I didn’t want to give that up. But he was patient with me, and kind, and I started to let myself remember. I told him he had nothing to apologize for, of course. And then driving home, I thought of Grace for some reason, and saw the pattern, and it scared the shit out of me.”
Wilson looks up at House then, sad but not nearly so gone as he had been. “I don’t want to do it again.”
“You won’t,” House says. “I won’t let you.”
That was apparently what Wilson needed to hear; he nods and half-way smiles. Dork.
House retrieves the bags from the table and settles next to Wilson on the sofa. The silence as they eat cold Thai food is amiable enough, until at some point the TV turns on.
When the evening fades into night, Wilson brings a still-in-packaging toothbrush out of the bathroom and hands it to House, then stretches out on the couch under a blanket. House takes the hint and spends the night on Wilson’s very comfortable mattress.
Wilson’s eating yogurt and granola when House walks out in the morning, but at the next place over, there’s a plate with two fluorescent blue Pop-Tarts on it. Awesome.
As House settles into his chair - there’s coffee, too, steaming hot - he says, “Let me get this straight. Well, not straight. Correct.” He glances over to find Wilson’s eyebrows upraised, but his spoon still moving back and forth between bowl and mouth. Good. “You’re not bi; you’re gay.”
“Yes,” Wilson says, drawing it out to show he’s ready for the rest of House’s inquiry.
“So the time we watched that one porn video and you embarrassed yourself on my couch...?”
Wilson ducks his head. “The guy was hot.”
“Huh.” House taps his lip in contemplation. “I didn’t pay him much attention at the time, but guess he was. Blue eyes, tall, lanky... Hey, he kind of looked like me, didn’t he?”
Wilson shakes his head lightly while staring resolutely at his bowl. “I’m so not ready to go there.”
“OK.” He lets Wilson have a moment to relax and then continues, “But when you do figure it out, at least I know if you tell me you love me like a brother, it doesn’t preclude me from getting laid.”
Wilson laughs with something that sounds like it might be a glimmer of happiness. “You’re never going to change, are you?”
“Nope,” House says.
“Good,” Wilson replies, and House decides today might not be such a bad day.
Title: Milk, Silk, a Bedspread or a Quilt
Author: Dee Laundry
Pairing: House-Wilson friendship (past relationships mentioned)
Rating: R for adult themes
WARNING for potentially disturbing backstory for Wilson. This is not a fun story.
Words: 5822
Summary: Cobwebs fall on an old skipping record; Wilson feels he’s doomed to repeat the past.
Notes: Set a few months after episode 5-16. Spoilers to that point, but no spoilers for future episodes. Thank you to daisylily and nightdog_barks for their careful and extremely helpful beta.
It’s Wednesday at three, a very nothing part of the week, and House is reading Us Weekly and the New England Journal of Medicine at the same time to see if he can make them both remotely interesting. It happens to be working, so when Wilson walks in the room, House doesn’t bother looking up.
“I’m not doing this because of you,” Wilson says.
“You’re not standing in my office because of me? Do you just like the view?”
“I’m not -” Wilson stops on the cusp of saying another word, intriguing House enough for him to drag his attention away from the pleasing mélange of macabre and sublime.
Wilson is pinching the bridge of his nose and doing the bite-bottom-lip-and-lick thing at the same time. It’s a very weird look.
“According to my Aunt Sarah,” House says, “your face has an extremely high probability of freezing that way.”
Wilson sighs, drops his hand, inspects the carpet. “I’m going to suggest Tuvek for my replacement, because of his skills at fundraising and administration, but you should probably go to Bates for consults. Better clinical skills and used to dealing with difficult patients. Or colleagues.”
House nods, even though Wilson’s still not looking at him. “Same deal as when you were on leave. You taking a vacation?”
The nose pinch is back, accompanied by a palming of the neck. Wilson’s gestures are all over the place - whatever this is, it’s not good.
“I’m... quitting,” Wilson admits. “Not because of you.”
“Then because of what?”
“Not here,” Wilson says. “Not now.” He turns on his heel and is at the door before House can get out of his chair. “I have to go tell Cuddy.”
“I’ll come with you,” House says.
“No!” Wilson snaps, and House is knocked back by the determination. “Later,” Wilson says more quietly, more gently. “You can ask me later, somewhere other than the hospital.”
House watches Wilson walk down the hall and then picks up the phone.
***
Despite his best efforts, House doesn’t see Wilson at all for the next two days. An interesting variety of other people drop by instead.
“What did you do?” Cuddy demands, thirty minutes after Wilson headed to her office.
“Left a flaming bag of crap at the base commander’s front door.”
Cuddy freezes, chest mid-heave (nice). “What?”
“When I was six,” House clarifies. “To be fair, it wasn’t intended for the base commander, it was meant for his dickhead son who had pushed me into the dirt during recess for no reason at all.”
It takes Cuddy a few seconds to catch up, during which her eyes blink rapidly and House decides she really ought to cut back on the mascara.
“To Wilson,” she says, as the blinkity-blink stops. “What did you do to Wilson? He’s resigning.”
“Yeah, that’s what he said.” House has his theories, of course, as to why that is, but they’re in a jumbled pack, like runners at the start of the Boston Marathon. None of the ideas has shaken off the others and emerged from the undifferentiated horde yet. Still, it won’t hurt to assert: “It’s not because of me.”
“You never want to think it’s about you.” Cuddy looks up to the ceiling and then back down at House. “Scratch that. You always think it’s about you, because you think everything is about you -”
“Can you prove everything’s not?”
“But,” Cuddy continues with a weird Wilson-like sigh-slash-groan, “you never want to think it’s your fault.”
“Who does want to think it’s their fault?” He watches her eyes narrow and then concedes, “Besides Wilson.”
“Fix it,” Cuddy commands, fingertips hitting House’s desks as she leans in over it. “I’m going to stall the paperwork, but you have to fix whatever problem it is you’ve caused and get him to withdraw his resignation.”
She’s attempting to loom, and damn near accomplishing it. Interesting.
“It really bothers you that he’s resigning.”
She whips back up to standing. “Of course it does. He’s a valuable member of this hospital.”
“Huh.” House is aware of Wilson’s value to the hospital, of course, but he hadn’t been certain that Cuddy was. He ignores the deepening disgruntlement of her features to ask, “What did Wilson say when you asked him why?”
“He said it was better if I didn’t know. Which is another reason I’m assuming you have something to do with it.”
By the time House has finished incorporating that new bit of data into his pack of theories - which have changed along the way from runners to wolves - Cuddy’s stance and voice have both softened.
“House,” she says, “he belongs here. Try to get him to see reason.”
Reason, both of them know, is not one of Wilson’s strong suits. “Lucky for you I like a challenge.”
“Lucky for all of us,” she says before heading out the door.
House’s next odd visitor shows up an hour later.
“Dr. House,” says the man in the obscenely expensive navy suit.
“Nicky-Boy,” House replies.
The passive mask slips the tiniest bit to show a hint of discontent before being put firmly back into place. “It’s Mr. Nicholson. Or feel free to call me Frank.”
“Something tells me ‘frank’ would not be an entirely accurate thing to call you.”
The attorney’s mask tightens that much more, as he avoids the subject entirely. “Dr. House, I’ll be brief. My reason for visiting you today is that legal advice my department has been asked to tender hinges on your willingness to carry out your ethical duty of maintaining the confidentiality of all statements made between yourself and Dr. James Wilson of the Oncology department of this hospital concerning investigations made for valid medical reasons into a patient of his who had had interaction with a patient of yours.”
Fucking lawyers. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m ascertaining your willingness to -”
“Yeah, yeah, enough of the babble. A patient of his interacted with a patient of mine...” Some of Wilson’s patients become House’s patients, but that apparently isn’t the case here. Interacted... investigations... all statements; fuck.
“This was almost three years ago?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” But apparently his pupils are at liberty to indicate how right House is.
“And my patient ‘interacted’ by giving his patient herpes.”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” Another yes. Fuck. Why is this coming up again after being dead and buried - literally - for so long?
House glares at the supercilious asshole wasting space in his office. “I’ve kept my mouth shut so far; what makes Wilson think I’d open it up now?”
Another tightening of features, and House is tempted to chuck the nearest heavy object at Nicky-Boy, to break his perfectly straight elongated nose so the man’ll make himself cross-eyed the next time he tries to stare haughtily down it.
“Dr. Wilson was adamant that you would honor confidentiality, but given certain... matters regarding you that have come to the attention of my office over the past several years, I felt it best to put in a personal word.”
“Word put in,” House says, and turns toward his computer. No sound of the door opening, so House leans his head back over his shoulder to glare at the asshole. “That means get the hell out.”
When Nicholson oozes his way back to Slime World, House picks up the phone again.
***
The next morning brings Chase with an excellent-smelling container of caffeinated goodness.
“Espresso,” Chase says as he hands the cup to House. “Wilson gave me fifty bucks to bring it to you.”
House raises an eyebrow.
Chase smirks and continues, “And I’ll be refunding the fifty bucks he paid me not to tell you that.” He pulls up the guest chair and wraps both hands around a second paper cup that he’d brought. “What’s up with him?”
“Wilson?” House breathes in the strong aroma. “He’s resigning.”
“I know that. Ninety percent of the hospital knows that. But ‘Why?’ is the question.”
“Why is one of the questions. Another is what illicit substance is in this secret container he gave to you to give to me.”
Chase chuckles. “It’s just espresso. I bought it myself downstairs.”
“Hmm,” House says and risks a sip. It tastes better than cafeteria espresso has any right to taste.
“I did wonder why coffee was so important that Wilson would spend a hundred dollars on it.”
“He spent a hundred on a hoagie for a guy he didn’t even know,” House reflects. At Chase’s lost expression, he rolls his eyes. “Wilson is matchmaking.”
“Matchmaking?” Chase rocks back in his chair and considers for a second. “You mean, you and me? No offense, House, but I’m quite satisfied with the girlfriend I have now.”
“Well, she is much better at testicle torture than I am, so that makes sense.” Without waiting for the feeble denial he knows will be completely untrue, House pushes on. “Wilson thinks that caffeine and the shared mystery of what the hell he’s up to will help us bond. Become friends.”
Chase shrugs. “People have become friends over less.”
“Yeah.” House hands his cup back to Chase and gets up from the chair. “A lot less. I’ll see you around.”
He leaves a bemused Australian and the two cups of penance behind in favor of another search for Wilson, one that proves as fruitless as the others he’s made.
***
He doesn’t bring Wilson to ground until late that evening, finally cornering the man in his own apartment. “OK, Jacob Marley,” House says as he pushes past Wilson and into the living room. “I’ve been visited by the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future - out of order, but still - so where’s the boy I give the farthing to for the Christmas goose?”
“It was a shilling,” Wilson replies, “but other than that, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Genuine confusion on his face, and bags under his eyes, and this whole thing sucks. Not being able to keep up with House is just one crappy symptom.
“Shilling, farthing, who the hell cares?”
“A shilling was worth way more than a farthing,” Wilson says wearily. He hasn’t sat down, or even moved out of the foyer. “Symbolic of Scrooge’s newfound generosity and willingness to embrace life. What are you doing here?”
“You said I could interrogate you later,” House reminds him from the comfort of the couch - limited comfort, in that Wilson doesn’t seem inclined to join him.
“Oh.” Wilson rubs his neck. “I’m sorry. I’ve been really busy.” His eyes blink slowly. “What does that have to do with A Christmas Carol?”
Holding himself back from throttling his stupid passive bastard best friend, House explains, “Since you walked out of my office, I’ve had three visitors there. First was Cuddy, breathing hellfire and commanding me to fix whatever screwed up thing is happening in the present.” He waits for the lights to click on behind Wilson’s eyes at his stress on that word, and when it doesn’t, his anger ratchets higher. “I’m getting a fucking crick in my neck trying to look at you. Sit the hell down.”
Wilson moves more directly into House’s natural line of sight but still doesn’t sit. Fucker. House notices for the first time that the shelves lining the living room are half-empty, but he doesn’t have time to call Wilson on it now.
“You can’t fix it,” Wilson says with a sigh. “Because it’s not about you.”
“So you said. While conveniently leaving out what it is about. Fortunately, the Ghost of Christmas Past, Old Nick himself, clued me in.” He waits for Wilson to elaborate, in vain. “Grace has been dead over two years. Whoever’s suing you obviously doesn’t know the statute of limitations for medical malpractice.”
“The statute of limitations for sexual assault, which includes doctor-patient contact, is five years,” Wilson retorts. “But nobody’s suing me. I’m... being proactive.”
“Proactive,” House says. Wilson’s wandering now, pacing in an erratic oval. “Three years after the fact.”
Wilson lets out a strangled ha. “Better late than never.”
“You do know you’re not making any damn sense.”
That finally breaks Wilson out of his malaise, and he stops his strange pacing in favor of throwing his arms in the air vehemently. “Sleeping with Grace was wrong! I stepped way, way over the line, having an affair with her; I violated the relationship we were supposed to have. Making amends for that makes total sense!”
“Except for the fact that she’s dead, and there’s no way you can make amends to her.”
“I can -” The anger rushes out of Wilson’s features, from head to toe, and dissipates into the floor. “I can stop it from happening again.”
As House’s heart catches in his chest, he asks, “You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?”
“I already have.”
House snorts in anger. “Kill yourself. You’re not going to kill yourself.”
“No.” Wilson has drifted toward the coat rack, and pulls down his jacket. “I don’t deserve that.”
“You’re not allowed to commit suicide, you know.” Wilson actually looks up at that, seeks eye contact; House gives it to him in full force. “You promised you wouldn’t walk away again.”
Wilson’s eyes are sad as he nods. “I’m not walking away from you, House. I’m just... not going to be available for a while.”
Such a dumbass. Such an idiot. He’s probably already started making notes in a copy of Prison for Dummies, too sunk in his guilt-wallow to realize that there is no way in hell House will let that happen. But time for that discussion later.
“Not available,” House echoes. “That’s why you sent Christmas Future.”
“What?” Wilson asks, expression totally befuddled.
So slow. This sucks. “Chase. With the espresso?”
“Oh.” Wilson nods and says firmly, “He’s a good guy, House. You had fun bowling with him that one time, right? And you need an ally at the hospital, too; I want to know someone’s looking out for you.”
“‘Looking out’ for me? That’s code for ‘caring.’ You didn’t send Cameron why?”
Wilson actually smiles. “I’m pretty sure Cameron will take up the caring mantle on her own. Nothing wrong with having two people you can count on, though.” His smile lingers as he says, “Now get up. I have to go; I have an appointment.”
“I’ll go with you,” House offers as he stands up from the couch.
“No,” Wilson says firmly, old familiar look of exasperated stubbornness on his face. House has trouble not smiling at the sight.
“If you don’t let me come with you,” he says as he makes his way to the door at a pace carefully calculated to frustrate, “I’m going to follow you.”
“No, you’re not,” Wilson says confidently, hands on hips. “I talked to Kutner an hour ago, and your patient’s test results are due any minute.”
They’re inches away from each other now, closer than they usually stand. “Your friendship means more to me than this patient.”
“I know,” Wilson says quietly. “But our friendship’s not at risk, and the patient is.”
House nods once and leads Wilson out to the sidewalk. He watches as Wilson’s Volvo pulls out of its parking space, and as a beat-up station wagon drives by, going in the same direction.
Wilson has apparently forgotten that House has more than one way to follow him.
***
Lucas eats like a horse. House doesn’t know why he never noticed before. There’s seriously something like four days’ worth of calories on his plate, and it’s only breakfast.
At least House isn’t paying for it.
Around the straw sticking out of his orange juice, Lucas says, “The guy really likes cake.”
Not what House was expecting; he puts his coffee cup down. “Wilson spent last night in a bakery?”
“No,” Lucas says, and shovels a bite of eggs in his mouth. “Cake, the band. You had me bug his car, remember?” More eggs. “He played their album Fashion Nugget all the way there and all the way back.”
“All the way where?”
“Except ‘I Will Survive.’” Lucas has infuriatingly moved on to his bacon, which is crispy enough that it sprinkles all over his plate with every bite. “They do a cover of that disco song ‘I Will Survive,’ but he skipped it every time. Two guitar chords and blip, on to ‘Stickshifts and Safetybelts.’”
Grr. “Where did he go?”
“Fort Lee, New Jersey. Across the river from the Bronx.” Correctly reading the expression on House’s face, Lucas holds up a hand and pulls a notebook out of his back pocket. “Why, you want to know why, got it. Wilson visited, let me get the name -” He flips through to a particular page. “Ah. Kaye Dykeman, Ph.D., M.D. I Googled her while he was in there. She’s got both the medical degree and a doctorate in psychology, and specializes in gender and sexuality issues and sexual mental health.”
House would suspect Lucas was pulling his leg, if the whole thing wasn’t so typically Wilson. “A gender and sexuality specialist named Dykeman?”
“Yeah.” Lucas shrugs. “Truth in advertising, I guess. In the last few years, she seems to have focused on motivations and outcomes of inappropriate sexual relationships, including what she calls ‘crossing professional boundaries for sex.’” Lucas looks up from his notebook. “Wilson did it with a patient?”
“Shut up and finish your report.”
Lucas stuffs a forkful of pancake in his mouth and chews contemplatively. “Was she hot?”
“No, he bonked an ugly patient.” He waits a beat for Lucas to continue the report - the delay is driving him nuts - before spitting out, “What the hell did he say to this psychiatrist?”
“Oh. I don’t know.” Back to the bacon; House is going insane. “Couldn’t get close enough to hear; couldn’t even get in the building; so I just waited outside until he was done. He came out with some brochures in his hand, but I couldn’t see what they were. When he started driving, he took a couple of turns like he was going to go into New York, but then he didn’t. Just drove home.”
So far, so nothing. Damn it. “And then what?”
As he’s slurping on his orange juice again, Lucas spears his hash browns but manages to answer House before eating again. “Then nothing.”
“I paid you to bug his place.”
“I had bugged his place; he just didn’t do anything. Walked around for like two minutes, brushed his teeth, peed, and then, um.”
“What?”
Lucas shifts in his seat. “The guy doesn’t deserve any privacy at all?”
“A doctor has to know all the symptoms or he can’t diagnose.” When Lucas won’t give it up, House glares and prepares to drag it out of him. “You want to give him privacy, so... He jerked off?”
“Not that I could hear. He, um, cried. For like twenty minutes, and then I didn’t hear anything the rest of the night, so I guess he went to sleep.”
***
The day passes in a crawling blur or a blurry crawl. One or the other. Wilson is once again never anywhere that House can find him, until House sends out an all-hands search party with the news that House’s leg is killing him and he needs Wilson to take him home.
It’s not House’s leg that’s killing him, but he plays it up once Wilson is unearthed from the Legal Department, and he manages to get Nightingale out the door and into the Volvo.
“Turn left here,” House commands a few moments later.
“But that’s not the way to your place,” Wilson protests, even as he’s pulling the steering wheel counter-clockwise.
“We have to make another stop.”
“Why? Do you need stronger drugs?”
House stares at Wilson for a very long moment, astonished by this freaky show of generosity, until he remembers that his leg’s supposed to be in more pain than usual. Shaking his head, he says, “No, but the Thai delivery guy’s going to be pissed if we leave him standing on your doorstep the whole night.”
“My doorstep?” Wilson’s trying to look at House and the road at the same time, and almost managing it. “I thought you needed to get home.”
“Yeah,” House says. “I do.”
The delivery guy is not actually on the doorstep when they get to Wilson’s apartment, but he bounds up the stairs as Wilson’s unlocking the door. House only gets more nervous when Wilson walks inside without so much as a greeting for the smiling delivery dude. It doesn’t seem like he expects House to take care of it; it seems like he forgot any action would be needed at all.
This sucks.
Fortunately, all the food is in bags with handles, so House manages to get it in the door and dumped onto the dining room table. Wilson wanders back out of the bedroom, looking at nothing, and House snaps.
“That’s it,” he says.
“That’s what?” Wilson asks, and House has to grit his teeth.
“This. You.” He gestures toward the couch; the message finally sinks in, and Wilson plods to it and takes a seat. “You’re going to sit, and you’re going to tell me what’s going on.”
“I told you,” Wilson says, not meeting House’s eyes. “I’m resigning, getting away from patients, so that I don’t repeat my mistakes with Grace. My assault on Grace.”
“Assault?” Now House’s leg really is starting to bother him; he takes up a steady pacing. “Did you hit Grace?”
“No.”
“Push her? Shove her? Twist her arm, literally or figuratively?”
“I was never violent with her or, or...” He fumbles for the words; House keeps pacing. “Or mentally abusive, but that doesn’t change the fact that I took advantage of her. She was sick, and she needed me to take care of her, not make - I mean, fuck her.”
“Wilson, you’re an idiot, and you can be a dick sometimes, but you’re not a rapist. Checking yourself into a sexual offender program is going to brand you for the rest of your life. You’ll be lumped in with dentists who sodomize sedated patients and priests who make teenagers confess on their knees.”
Wilson’s head whips around to track House’s path across the hardwood floor. “How did you know I’m evaluating offender programs?”
“Evaluating them? Going to write them up on Yelp?”
“Figuring out which one would be most effective.” Wilson sinks back into the couch cushion.
“You mean most punitive.” Wilson’s dipped head only confirms what House already knew. “Dykeman’s feeding you this shit, isn’t she?”
“She’s not feeding me anything!” For the first time tonight, Wilson’s showing some fire. Figures it would be in defense of a damsel. “It’s my idea, my choice. I need help, intensive help, to make sure I never do what I did to Grace again. It has to be stopped. I have to be stopped.”
“Stopped. From the thing you already stopped doing three years ago.” House shakes his head, and paces harder. “This charlatan Dykeman is taking you for a fucking ride.”
“She’s not! I’ve been seeing her for over a year, on referral from my old psychiatrist, and she’s great. Just because -”
“A year?” Wilson’s a sneaky bastard, but House wouldn’t have thought he could pull something like this off for so long. “You’ve been planning to leave your job and ‘atone’ for Grace for a year? Then why didn’t you mention it when you left after Amber?”
“After Amber?” Wilson’s face falls into complete befuddlement and then clears. “No, my realization about Grace just came up when... Recently.” He lets out a heavy breath. “I’ve been seeing Kaye for... something else.”
Wilson’s eyes beg House not to go there, but when has House ever listened to them? “Something else. Something you had to be referred to a gender and sexuality specialist for. So either I’m going to have to start calling you Cherise or...”
“Yeah,” Wilson says with a sigh. “I’m gay. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t even really want to admit it to myself. Kaye’s been helping me work through it.”
“For a year. And you didn’t tell me.” He has no idea why he’s surprised - Wilson’s kept a lot from him over the years - but he is. “What the hell were you afraid of? Bisexuality’s in. You and Thirteen could’ve double-double-dated.”
Wilson sighs again. “I don’t even know what that is, but I’m not bisexual, House. I’m gay. I have been attracted to a couple of women in my life - Amber was the best of them - but that’s it.” Wilson’s knuckles press to his lips; his eyes fall close and then drift open again. “I slept with women I had no desire for, and married three women I didn’t love, just because they needed me, because I wanted to take care of them. And because I thought I could make myself normal.”
“Gay’s normal, Wilson.”
“Gay is normal,” Wilson agrees. “I’m not.”
“You -”
“The first time I ever ejaculated, it was into my brother’s mouth.”
House’s mind is a blank slate with only one thought written on it: I can’t have heard that right.
“I,” Wilson continues slowly, reluctantly, “...abused my brother. Sexually abused him. You’re the first person I’ve ever told.”
House remembers the big, jovial bear of a man he’s seen at two Wilson weddings and had dinner with a few other times. The one who looked at Wilson with such sincere fondness it made House slightly nauseated. “Tim?”
“No,” Wilson says, with a tremor running through his shoulders and neck. “He was a kid, pre-pubescent; no. It was Kyle.”
“Kyle,” House echoes. The one House hasn’t met, doesn’t know at all. The one who ran away. The one who...
“Wait,” House says. “The first time you ejaculated? How old were you?”
“Thirteen. The day after my bar mitzvah. Everyone was out except us, and Dad’s liquor cabinet was overflowing with leftovers. We raided it, figuring they wouldn’t notice any missing. A couple of drinks of rum, and we were making out, like usual, and then he... and I... We...” Wilson runs out of steam and doesn’t bother to finish his sentence.
This is insane, House thinks. Unreal. Then his brain clicks on a phrase Wilson just uttered. “‘Like usual’? You’d made out before then?”
“Yeah. Couple of times. And then it didn’t stop after that day, either. We kept - I kept...” Wilson screws his eyes shut and pinches his nose. “I abused my brother for over four months.”
“‘Abused.’ Really.” This is not making any sense at all. “You’re sure you’re not talking about Tim?”
Wilson’s face contorts in horrified disgust. “No, not Tim. He was a kid, a baby, no, never. I’m sick but I’m not a pedophile.” He shudders. “No. It was Kyle.”
“Wilson.” He always knew Wilson’s thinking was screwed up, but this is beyond twisted. “Kyle was seventeen.”
“Yes.”
“He was older; he was the one abusing you.”
“No, you don’t understand. He was sick, not well. He wasn’t responsible for his actions. We couldn’t hold anything against him; we had to stand up for him, take care of him, because he couldn’t take care of himself.”
Wilson’s parroting of his parents’ no doubt well-meant phrases about Kyle’s mental illness is making House’s stomach roil. “He was seventeen. You were thirteen.”
“I was a man; I was responsible. I should’ve protected him.”
Wilson’s eyes are growing suspiciously red; his knuckles keep pressing harder and harder into his lips.
House has no idea what to say.
“Wilson.”
“I ruined him. He went crazy because I loved him.”
Wilson’s eyes have a sheen to them, and now House knows what to say.
“You always fuck this shit up, Wilson.”
Eyes closed, Wilson nods. “Yes.”
“Moron.” House is beyond furious. “I can’t believe you made it through med school.” He plants himself in front of his stupid, stupid, stupid best friend and waits until he gets eye contact. “Correlation is not causation, you dumbass.”
“What?”
“You loved him and he went crazy. You didn’t cause a damn thing.”
“I -”
“You didn’t give Grace herpes. You didn’t give her cancer. You didn’t cause her to die. Yes, you had an affair with a patient, and you should pay... by never doing it again. Which you haven’t and you won’t.”
“It’s a pattern,” Wilson insists fervently. “With my brother, with Grace, I violated the relationship. I was supposed to just take care of them, not have sex with them. You have to admit, it’s disgusting! I’m depraved!”
“Yeah,” House snorts. “I admit it. I think you’re depraved and disgusting.” Wilson’s face contorts in something that looks like relief, and House is angry, angry, angry. “The way you crash yourself on the shoals every single goddamn chance you get. You can’t wait to sacrifice yourself, throw yourself under the bus, to try to save other people. Well, guess what. You can’t fix other people by destroying yourself.”
“Why can’t I? Why shouldn’t I? I try to, to help people who can still be helped. There’s nothing else for me than that! I’m wrecked; I’m... wrong, nothing, less than human, hopeless. Why not try to rescue the people who can still be saved?”
Those stupid eyes. House has always hated Wilson’s stupid eyes, so round, so rich, and the way they’re filled with desperation and despair now is just the icing on the motherfucking cake.
“You know what?” House snaps. “Fuck you. Fuck you!”
That knocks the bastard back and snaps a new livelier expression into his eyes. “What?”
“Fuck you, you asshole,” House repeats, as he gets right up into Wilson’s personal space, looming over the idiot gazing up at him from the couch. “You know how many people I’ve loved in my life?”
“What?”
“Do you know?” House grinds out, and refuses to let Wilson break eye contact.
“No, I -”
“Five. Five people in my life. My mother, my one grandmother, my college girlfriend, Stacy, and you. That’s it. And you have the nerve to sit there and imply that I’m so stupid that I’d throw my love away on someone who’s worthless.”
The sheen’s back, thicker, and then Wilson chokes on the single word “I,” and then his face is distorting, folding inward as he starts to cry in earnest. House’s arm is around Wilson’s shoulders; his other hand’s in Wilson’s hair. He didn’t tell his limbs to move, but move they did, and he clutches his best friend to him, Wilson’s head pressing into House’s torso.
“You went through shit, Wilson, and some of it stuck.” He doesn’t let Wilson shake his head, doesn’t let Wilson try to deny it. “You don’t need a sex offender program; you don’t need punishment. You need help to clear it all off so you can see who you are again.”
Wilson’s crying dies down enough for him to get out, “You’ve been through shit, and you always say you don’t need help.”
Bitter amusement springs up in House, and he laughs. “I’ve only had meaningful, long-lasting relationships with five people. Not exactly the sign of someone who doesn’t need help. But I’m functioning better than you at the moment.”
Wilson brings his arms up and wraps them around House’s waist for one quick squeeze before letting go and pulling away. House lets him sit back and then takes a couple steps to get some distance. He doesn’t go too far, though.
Wilson’s calmer now, and with House, not off in la-la land in his head, so House decides he can ask. “What I don’t get is why now. Grace is gone; Kyle is gone. So what brought up this sudden need to atone?”
“Kyle’s not gone, not any more,” Wilson says with a small curl of lips, barely enough to be a smile. “He called me last week, and I went to see him. He’s been in a psych facility in New York for several weeks, on meds and doing so much better, lucid and coherent, and just about like he was before he got sick.”
“Seeing someone you love healthy cracked you?”
Wilson ignores that completely. “He apologized.” He shakes his head. “For kissing me, touching me, having sex with me. I told him it wasn’t true. That his brain had made it up. I’d spent more than twenty-five years being convinced it never happened, and I didn’t want to give that up. But he was patient with me, and kind, and I started to let myself remember. I told him he had nothing to apologize for, of course. And then driving home, I thought of Grace for some reason, and saw the pattern, and it scared the shit out of me.”
Wilson looks up at House then, sad but not nearly so gone as he had been. “I don’t want to do it again.”
“You won’t,” House says. “I won’t let you.”
That was apparently what Wilson needed to hear; he nods and half-way smiles. Dork.
House retrieves the bags from the table and settles next to Wilson on the sofa. The silence as they eat cold Thai food is amiable enough, until at some point the TV turns on.
When the evening fades into night, Wilson brings a still-in-packaging toothbrush out of the bathroom and hands it to House, then stretches out on the couch under a blanket. House takes the hint and spends the night on Wilson’s very comfortable mattress.
Wilson’s eating yogurt and granola when House walks out in the morning, but at the next place over, there’s a plate with two fluorescent blue Pop-Tarts on it. Awesome.
As House settles into his chair - there’s coffee, too, steaming hot - he says, “Let me get this straight. Well, not straight. Correct.” He glances over to find Wilson’s eyebrows upraised, but his spoon still moving back and forth between bowl and mouth. Good. “You’re not bi; you’re gay.”
“Yes,” Wilson says, drawing it out to show he’s ready for the rest of House’s inquiry.
“So the time we watched that one porn video and you embarrassed yourself on my couch...?”
Wilson ducks his head. “The guy was hot.”
“Huh.” House taps his lip in contemplation. “I didn’t pay him much attention at the time, but guess he was. Blue eyes, tall, lanky... Hey, he kind of looked like me, didn’t he?”
Wilson shakes his head lightly while staring resolutely at his bowl. “I’m so not ready to go there.”
“OK.” He lets Wilson have a moment to relax and then continues, “But when you do figure it out, at least I know if you tell me you love me like a brother, it doesn’t preclude me from getting laid.”
Wilson laughs with something that sounds like it might be a glimmer of happiness. “You’re never going to change, are you?”
“Nope,” House says.
“Good,” Wilson replies, and House decides today might not be such a bad day.