(no subject)
Title: For Every Closed Door (7/?)
Fandom: House MD/Dead Like Me crossover
Author: Starling
Rating: R overall
Characters/pairings: House, original character, House/Wilson.
Warnings: Afterlife!Fic. Thus, by necessity, also a death!fic, but not depressing.
Summary: "What now?" "Now we get ridiculously drunk. Obviously."
Obligatory Disclaimer: I don't own, write for, or produce either of these fabulous shows. I'm just a geek with too much time on her hands.
A/N: This chapter is brought to you by the free refills of coffee at King Solomon's Reef restaurant in Olympia, Washington. And it probably shows.
Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.
Concrit feedback gives me warm fuzzies.
x-posted to housefic and house_wilson.
-Well, I want my life back!
-It's not like you were doing anything with it.
From "Dead Like Me" episode 1x1
It was seeing Susan's Rivendell fold up and disappear before his eyes that decided it. A girl had died, House had taken her soul with a small and simple touch, and then he'd watched as she'd been absorbed into a heaven of her own choosing. He needed Wilson; he needed somebody to commiserate with him about how surreal life was, how it could be utterly extraordinary and absolutely inane at the same time.
It wouldn't be hard to convince him. House had enough dirt on his friend that nobody else knew (and vice versa) that Wilson would have to believe that House was who he claimed.
"Where are you going?" Colby asked, struggling to keep up with House as he power walked down the deserted street. Behind them, sirens signaled the arrival of an ambulance for Susan, for all the good it would do her.
"Gotta go see a man about a thing. You know how it is," House replied, dropping a wink and touching his nose conspiratorially.
"Um, no. I don't. What the hell does that even mean?"
"It means," House replied, whirling on the bewildered Reaper, "That I have business that needs to be taken care of, and I don't need a babysitter. I'm a busy man. Got places to wreck, people to do. If you know what I mean," House said, turning away again.
"Oh, gross," he heard Colby say as he started walking away again.
"Yeah, well, you asked," he called over his shoulder.
Colby jogged to catch back up with him. "But I'm supposed to be finding you an apartment, and Kay said-"
"I know what Kay said. I was there," House snapped. He took a deep breath, and lowered his voice. "Look. I need some... time. I just watched a girl die, and then her walked off into Middle Earth. I want to go somewhere quiet and think for a while."
I'd like to thank the Academy... And James Wilson, my mentor in the art of manipulation... Lisa Cuddy for constantly challenging me to find new ways of successfully lying to and avoiding people...
Colby nodded in earnest understanding. "It's hard to get used to. But you will, eventually. Everybody does."
House fought an urge to roll his eyes. He was a doctor and an unrepentant bastard. Watching Susan die had been more fascinating than heart wrenching, with all the mysterious mechanics of death laid open like intricate clockwork. Sure, it sucked that she'd died, but it wasn't his fault she'd slipped in marinara sauce. He didn't plan on having a crisis of conscience any time soon.
Not that he wanted Colby to know that, so he kept up the facade of being in the throes of an existential crisis.
"I'll meet you back at Hennry's in a couple of hours," Colby said decisively.
"Thanks," House said, trying to sound reluctantly grateful.
"Do you need me to drop you off somewhere?"
House bit back a sarcastic comment, and instead replied, "No thanks. I could use a walk."
Colby clapped him good naturedly on the shoulder, smiled understandingly again, and then walked back to the car. Finally.
House waited until Colby's Volkswagen had passed out of view before he started running. He was only a mile or two from his house on Baker Street. It was a slim chance that Wilson would be there in the middle of the afternoon, but House was willing to wait all day if he had to.
Pounding down the pavement, House rehearsed what he would say, how he would convince Wilson that he wasn't just some shmuck off the street.
Listen, I know it's weird. I know it doesn't look like me, but since when are things ever what they seem? I can prove it.
The first time you lied for me was only three weeks after we met. It was that case with the heavy metal poisoning in the married guy; he'd been spending too much time at a disreputable bath house in Trenton. Cuddy's predecessor, what's-his-name... Bruner was about to ream me out for outing the husband to his wife when you stepped in, said I'd had to because the guy had herpes and the wife needed to be tested.
After, I asked why you did that. You just shrugged, said now you could blackmail me into buying lunch the rest of the week.
The patient had been clean, but Wilson had been an artful liar even just out of his residency. Their boss had bought it, and because Wilson seemed so honest and trustworthy, had never bothered to actually check the results of the test.
Ah, memories. The beginning of a beautiful friendship.
House slowed down once he got to his block, rubbing at the cramp in his side. He could see Wilson's Volvo a block or two away, and suddenly hesitated.
What the hell? House had never hesitated in his life, made it a point not to. And it was just Wilson, the only person he'd want to allow into his afterlife. What was the point of being stuck in this world if he didn't at least have someone to make fun of it with?
He wiped the sweat from his face, mounted the steps, and forced himself to knock on the door.
There was an interminable moment of waiting, before he heard Wilson's familiar footsteps, and then the door opened.
Wilson was dressed casually; the familiar McGill sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, no shoes or socks. He looked about as well rested as House had been this morning. His eyes were bloodshot, the skin beneath them dark and almost bruised looking. There was actually stubble on the man's cheeks. House couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Wilson anything but clean shaven.
"Yes?" Wilson said. He was totally closed off. House realized he'd been counting on Wilson recognizing him, at least subconsciously. Kay had said Wilson was a medium, so why was the man looking at House like that? Like he expected him to ask for money to save the whales, or start talking the Rapture, or ask if Wilson wanted to buy magazine subscriptions.
"Is there something I can help you with?" Wilson asked, sounding slightly impatient.
House stood there, trying to push a coherent word out of his mouth. What the hell was wrong with him?
Wilson rolled his eyes and started to shut the door, and finally, the block in House's throat dissolved.
"Wilson! Wait!" he shouted, putting his hand on the door.
After a moment, the door opened again. "Do I know you?"
Yes! Tell him, idiot! House opened his mouth, ready to start telling the story of the first time Wilson saved his ass from a superior's wrath.
"The first time... you..." he trailed off in confusion. What the hell? Suddenly, the story he'd meant to tell was gone. It had been about a case, but what was the case? What was the diagnosis? What had Wilson done?
"What?" Wilson growled.
"You lied," House said, as much to himself as to Wilson. That's right, Wilson had lied for him, but-
"Excuse me?" Wilson asked coldly.
Jesus, what was wrong with him? Sudden memory loss- but Kay said Reapers didn't get sick, and that must include sudden neurological-
"Where did you get that shirt?" Wilson suddenly asked.
House looked down. Oh shit, of course Wilson would recognize this shirt. He'd called it the ugliest thing he'd ever seen another person wearing, except for the time Cuddy had dressed as Madonna circa 1988 for a Halloween party. And it wasn't likely that there was another guy wandering around Princeton in a shirt featuring an octopus eating babies on it.
"That's House's shirt. Where the hell did you get it?" Wilson said, his voice rising.
This was not going as House had planned.
"Listen, I-"
"I don't know who the fuck you are, but I want you to get the hell out of here," Wilson snarled.
"I..." House began, wondering what the hell was wrong with him, why couldn't he speak.
That's when Wilson, calm, geeky, pocket-protector-wearing, good-bedside-manner-cultivating, Dr. James "Above All, Do No Harm" Wilson actually stepped forward and shoved House so hard, he hit the wall opposite his door in the hallway.
"I said get out!" Wilson shouted, then stepped back inside, slamming the door behind him.
House leaned over, winded from the confrontation as much as hitting the wall, wondering what the hell had just happened.
***
Kay, it appeared, surpassed even Cuddy's skill in finding him when all he wanted to do was hide (or failing that, die a quick and painless death), though it seemed to take her longer. But to be fair, Kay had more ground to cover in searching for him. Cuddy had usually only had the hospital and its grounds. Kay had to cover the whole of Princeton.
Two hours and several miles away from his former apartment, the familiar black Jetta pulled up along side of him. "Get in," Kay ordered.
House thought about just walking away, or telling her to fuck off, but he had the energy for neither. He slid into the front seat and slouched down instead, awaiting the inevitable angry lecture.
To his surprise, Kay just drove silently, or hummed along to the radio. Eventually, they pulled into a discount liquor store. Kay put the Volkswagen in park, but left the engine running.
"Whiskey okay?" she asked him. House raised an inquiring eyebrow, then shrugged his assent. She went inside, and came back out five minutes later carrying a brown paper bag. She opened the door and handed it to House. He peeked inside; there were two bottles of Jameson whiskey. He let a small huff of amusement as Kay pulled back out into traffic.
"You went to the apartment again." There was no question in Kay's voice, so House didn't bother answering her.
"Was Wilson there?"
House nodded.
"And you tried to tell him who you were. And you couldn't."
House nodded. "I was going to tell him a story, something only he and I would know. And when I tried..."
"You couldn't remember what it was. And now the memory is gone."
House nodded again. He'd wracked his brain for two hours trying to recapture the memory, but it had constantly eluded him. Something about Wilson, something the man had done for him. But what, or why, or any other detail of the story was gone.
"It'll happen again if you keep trying. Did you think you were the only Reaper to ever do this? We're under the radar, and the Powers that Be intend to keep it that way."
"The Powers that Be are assholes."
"Yeah, they usually are."
After a pause, House asked, "Now what?"
"Now we get ridiculously drunk. Obviously."
They rode in silence for another ten minutes, before Kay pulled into a warehouse that had been converted into a series of fashionably bohemian lofts and apartments.
"Where are we?" House asked, getting out.
"Your new apartment building. Colby's reap had a two bedroom on the first floor. Consider yourself lucky, and don't be an asshole to him anymore."
They opened the door to his new place. It was smaller than his other apartment, and there was an annoying amount of pseudo Asian trinkets, but it was better than sleeping on Kay's couch again.
House cursed as he felt something scratch his ankle. He looked down to see a ridiculously fluffy gray ball of fur eyeing him suspiciously from the floor.
"Oh, and you inherited the guy's cat. Its name is Maitri," Kay said as she unscrewed the bottle of whiskey.
"Not anymore. I'm renaming you Beelzebub," he said to the animal as it walked away disdainfully. He opened his own bottle of Jameson.
"Here's to whoever it was that said you can't go home again," Kay said. House made a face.
"Dylan Thomas. Who, incidentally, died after drinking something like 40 shots of whiskey." So much for sentimentality.
"Well. Here's to being undead, then. It's not great, but at least we don't get hangovers," Kay retorted.
"I'll drink to that," House said, putting the bottle to his lips.
***
An hour and most of a bottle later, House and Kay were exchanging stories about Wilson and Delia, the reaper whose place House had taken. As it turned out, Delia and Kay had been taking souls and causing trouble since the 1940's, which made his and Wilson's adventures seem pale in comparison at times.
"And then she says to this stupid cop, she says, 'Don't worry officer. I'm wearing enough underwear for the both of us!'" Kay finished, giggling.
"Did I tell you 'bout that time in Atlan... Atlan..." Atlantic City was proving difficult to pronounce, so House just said, "that time in that place, when he found me an alibi, so nobody would know I kind of killed somebody? Thass a real friend."
House's brow furrowed in remembrance. "Course, he turned me into the cops later, but tha' was for something else entirely," he explained.
"I know what you mean!" Kay shouted, waving her mostly empty bottle dangerously. "I don't even know how many times Delia bailed me out. We were, we were, we were..." Kay seemed stuck on that phrase, so House hit her.
"Ow! What was that for?"
"You were skipping. Like a record. I'm a doctor, I cured you."
"Ohhhh," Kay said in realization. "Thank you. Anyway, we were like Bonnie and Clyde or something. Only it was like Bonnie and Bonnie, 'cause we were both girls. But I loved her," Kay said with deadly earnestness. "Yes I did. And not just like 'Oh, you're my friend and I love you,' loved her. It was serious love. I never told her, I couldn't because that's really awkward. Did that ever happen to you?"
"Did what ever happen to me?" House said, attempting to take another sip from his bottle of whiskey. He missed his mouth the first couple of times, but he made it there eventually.
"Did you ever fall for someone you worked with or were friends with or whatever? And you couldn't say anything because you don't know how they feel and you don't want to, want to, want to risk what you already have? And, and, and so you jus' sit and wait for it to go away and it never does and then one day they're gone," Kay was sounding dangerously close to teary, "and you'll never get them back. And you wonder all the time if you shouldn't have just for-fuck's-sake said something."
There was something in Kay's rambling speech that niggled at House, trying to penetrate the dense haze of alcohol that was fogging his brain.
Kay hiccupped. "You ever hafta deal with that? It's even worse when you're kind of gay," she whispered, "And your friend seems kind of straight."
Gay. Wilson was kind of gay. Or at least, he blow dried his hair and liked The Village People.
Wait a minute...
He suddenly remembered Cuddy's voice. "You never told him, did you?" And Wilson's answer, that it was probably for the best.
"Oh shit."
The realization floored him. Literally.
"You're spilling the rest of your Jameson, dumbass," Kay said from somewhere above him. "That's considered a crime in some countries."
"He was in love with me!" House hadn't meant to shout, but his voice was nonetheless echoing off the walls and ceiling of his new apartment.
Kay tried to grab the now-empty bottle from beside him, but succeeded only in falling over herself. "Well, no shit, Sherlock," she mumbled into the floor.
Fandom: House MD/Dead Like Me crossover
Author: Starling
Rating: R overall
Characters/pairings: House, original character, House/Wilson.
Warnings: Afterlife!Fic. Thus, by necessity, also a death!fic, but not depressing.
Summary: "What now?" "Now we get ridiculously drunk. Obviously."
Obligatory Disclaimer: I don't own, write for, or produce either of these fabulous shows. I'm just a geek with too much time on her hands.
A/N: This chapter is brought to you by the free refills of coffee at King Solomon's Reef restaurant in Olympia, Washington. And it probably shows.
Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.
Concrit feedback gives me warm fuzzies.
x-posted to housefic and house_wilson.
-Well, I want my life back!
-It's not like you were doing anything with it.
From "Dead Like Me" episode 1x1
It was seeing Susan's Rivendell fold up and disappear before his eyes that decided it. A girl had died, House had taken her soul with a small and simple touch, and then he'd watched as she'd been absorbed into a heaven of her own choosing. He needed Wilson; he needed somebody to commiserate with him about how surreal life was, how it could be utterly extraordinary and absolutely inane at the same time.
It wouldn't be hard to convince him. House had enough dirt on his friend that nobody else knew (and vice versa) that Wilson would have to believe that House was who he claimed.
"Where are you going?" Colby asked, struggling to keep up with House as he power walked down the deserted street. Behind them, sirens signaled the arrival of an ambulance for Susan, for all the good it would do her.
"Gotta go see a man about a thing. You know how it is," House replied, dropping a wink and touching his nose conspiratorially.
"Um, no. I don't. What the hell does that even mean?"
"It means," House replied, whirling on the bewildered Reaper, "That I have business that needs to be taken care of, and I don't need a babysitter. I'm a busy man. Got places to wreck, people to do. If you know what I mean," House said, turning away again.
"Oh, gross," he heard Colby say as he started walking away again.
"Yeah, well, you asked," he called over his shoulder.
Colby jogged to catch back up with him. "But I'm supposed to be finding you an apartment, and Kay said-"
"I know what Kay said. I was there," House snapped. He took a deep breath, and lowered his voice. "Look. I need some... time. I just watched a girl die, and then her walked off into Middle Earth. I want to go somewhere quiet and think for a while."
I'd like to thank the Academy... And James Wilson, my mentor in the art of manipulation... Lisa Cuddy for constantly challenging me to find new ways of successfully lying to and avoiding people...
Colby nodded in earnest understanding. "It's hard to get used to. But you will, eventually. Everybody does."
House fought an urge to roll his eyes. He was a doctor and an unrepentant bastard. Watching Susan die had been more fascinating than heart wrenching, with all the mysterious mechanics of death laid open like intricate clockwork. Sure, it sucked that she'd died, but it wasn't his fault she'd slipped in marinara sauce. He didn't plan on having a crisis of conscience any time soon.
Not that he wanted Colby to know that, so he kept up the facade of being in the throes of an existential crisis.
"I'll meet you back at Hennry's in a couple of hours," Colby said decisively.
"Thanks," House said, trying to sound reluctantly grateful.
"Do you need me to drop you off somewhere?"
House bit back a sarcastic comment, and instead replied, "No thanks. I could use a walk."
Colby clapped him good naturedly on the shoulder, smiled understandingly again, and then walked back to the car. Finally.
House waited until Colby's Volkswagen had passed out of view before he started running. He was only a mile or two from his house on Baker Street. It was a slim chance that Wilson would be there in the middle of the afternoon, but House was willing to wait all day if he had to.
Pounding down the pavement, House rehearsed what he would say, how he would convince Wilson that he wasn't just some shmuck off the street.
Listen, I know it's weird. I know it doesn't look like me, but since when are things ever what they seem? I can prove it.
The first time you lied for me was only three weeks after we met. It was that case with the heavy metal poisoning in the married guy; he'd been spending too much time at a disreputable bath house in Trenton. Cuddy's predecessor, what's-his-name... Bruner was about to ream me out for outing the husband to his wife when you stepped in, said I'd had to because the guy had herpes and the wife needed to be tested.
After, I asked why you did that. You just shrugged, said now you could blackmail me into buying lunch the rest of the week.
The patient had been clean, but Wilson had been an artful liar even just out of his residency. Their boss had bought it, and because Wilson seemed so honest and trustworthy, had never bothered to actually check the results of the test.
Ah, memories. The beginning of a beautiful friendship.
House slowed down once he got to his block, rubbing at the cramp in his side. He could see Wilson's Volvo a block or two away, and suddenly hesitated.
What the hell? House had never hesitated in his life, made it a point not to. And it was just Wilson, the only person he'd want to allow into his afterlife. What was the point of being stuck in this world if he didn't at least have someone to make fun of it with?
He wiped the sweat from his face, mounted the steps, and forced himself to knock on the door.
There was an interminable moment of waiting, before he heard Wilson's familiar footsteps, and then the door opened.
Wilson was dressed casually; the familiar McGill sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, no shoes or socks. He looked about as well rested as House had been this morning. His eyes were bloodshot, the skin beneath them dark and almost bruised looking. There was actually stubble on the man's cheeks. House couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Wilson anything but clean shaven.
"Yes?" Wilson said. He was totally closed off. House realized he'd been counting on Wilson recognizing him, at least subconsciously. Kay had said Wilson was a medium, so why was the man looking at House like that? Like he expected him to ask for money to save the whales, or start talking the Rapture, or ask if Wilson wanted to buy magazine subscriptions.
"Is there something I can help you with?" Wilson asked, sounding slightly impatient.
House stood there, trying to push a coherent word out of his mouth. What the hell was wrong with him?
Wilson rolled his eyes and started to shut the door, and finally, the block in House's throat dissolved.
"Wilson! Wait!" he shouted, putting his hand on the door.
After a moment, the door opened again. "Do I know you?"
Yes! Tell him, idiot! House opened his mouth, ready to start telling the story of the first time Wilson saved his ass from a superior's wrath.
"The first time... you..." he trailed off in confusion. What the hell? Suddenly, the story he'd meant to tell was gone. It had been about a case, but what was the case? What was the diagnosis? What had Wilson done?
"What?" Wilson growled.
"You lied," House said, as much to himself as to Wilson. That's right, Wilson had lied for him, but-
"Excuse me?" Wilson asked coldly.
Jesus, what was wrong with him? Sudden memory loss- but Kay said Reapers didn't get sick, and that must include sudden neurological-
"Where did you get that shirt?" Wilson suddenly asked.
House looked down. Oh shit, of course Wilson would recognize this shirt. He'd called it the ugliest thing he'd ever seen another person wearing, except for the time Cuddy had dressed as Madonna circa 1988 for a Halloween party. And it wasn't likely that there was another guy wandering around Princeton in a shirt featuring an octopus eating babies on it.
"That's House's shirt. Where the hell did you get it?" Wilson said, his voice rising.
This was not going as House had planned.
"Listen, I-"
"I don't know who the fuck you are, but I want you to get the hell out of here," Wilson snarled.
"I..." House began, wondering what the hell was wrong with him, why couldn't he speak.
That's when Wilson, calm, geeky, pocket-protector-wearing, good-bedside-manner-cultivating, Dr. James "Above All, Do No Harm" Wilson actually stepped forward and shoved House so hard, he hit the wall opposite his door in the hallway.
"I said get out!" Wilson shouted, then stepped back inside, slamming the door behind him.
House leaned over, winded from the confrontation as much as hitting the wall, wondering what the hell had just happened.
***
Kay, it appeared, surpassed even Cuddy's skill in finding him when all he wanted to do was hide (or failing that, die a quick and painless death), though it seemed to take her longer. But to be fair, Kay had more ground to cover in searching for him. Cuddy had usually only had the hospital and its grounds. Kay had to cover the whole of Princeton.
Two hours and several miles away from his former apartment, the familiar black Jetta pulled up along side of him. "Get in," Kay ordered.
House thought about just walking away, or telling her to fuck off, but he had the energy for neither. He slid into the front seat and slouched down instead, awaiting the inevitable angry lecture.
To his surprise, Kay just drove silently, or hummed along to the radio. Eventually, they pulled into a discount liquor store. Kay put the Volkswagen in park, but left the engine running.
"Whiskey okay?" she asked him. House raised an inquiring eyebrow, then shrugged his assent. She went inside, and came back out five minutes later carrying a brown paper bag. She opened the door and handed it to House. He peeked inside; there were two bottles of Jameson whiskey. He let a small huff of amusement as Kay pulled back out into traffic.
"You went to the apartment again." There was no question in Kay's voice, so House didn't bother answering her.
"Was Wilson there?"
House nodded.
"And you tried to tell him who you were. And you couldn't."
House nodded. "I was going to tell him a story, something only he and I would know. And when I tried..."
"You couldn't remember what it was. And now the memory is gone."
House nodded again. He'd wracked his brain for two hours trying to recapture the memory, but it had constantly eluded him. Something about Wilson, something the man had done for him. But what, or why, or any other detail of the story was gone.
"It'll happen again if you keep trying. Did you think you were the only Reaper to ever do this? We're under the radar, and the Powers that Be intend to keep it that way."
"The Powers that Be are assholes."
"Yeah, they usually are."
After a pause, House asked, "Now what?"
"Now we get ridiculously drunk. Obviously."
They rode in silence for another ten minutes, before Kay pulled into a warehouse that had been converted into a series of fashionably bohemian lofts and apartments.
"Where are we?" House asked, getting out.
"Your new apartment building. Colby's reap had a two bedroom on the first floor. Consider yourself lucky, and don't be an asshole to him anymore."
They opened the door to his new place. It was smaller than his other apartment, and there was an annoying amount of pseudo Asian trinkets, but it was better than sleeping on Kay's couch again.
House cursed as he felt something scratch his ankle. He looked down to see a ridiculously fluffy gray ball of fur eyeing him suspiciously from the floor.
"Oh, and you inherited the guy's cat. Its name is Maitri," Kay said as she unscrewed the bottle of whiskey.
"Not anymore. I'm renaming you Beelzebub," he said to the animal as it walked away disdainfully. He opened his own bottle of Jameson.
"Here's to whoever it was that said you can't go home again," Kay said. House made a face.
"Dylan Thomas. Who, incidentally, died after drinking something like 40 shots of whiskey." So much for sentimentality.
"Well. Here's to being undead, then. It's not great, but at least we don't get hangovers," Kay retorted.
"I'll drink to that," House said, putting the bottle to his lips.
***
An hour and most of a bottle later, House and Kay were exchanging stories about Wilson and Delia, the reaper whose place House had taken. As it turned out, Delia and Kay had been taking souls and causing trouble since the 1940's, which made his and Wilson's adventures seem pale in comparison at times.
"And then she says to this stupid cop, she says, 'Don't worry officer. I'm wearing enough underwear for the both of us!'" Kay finished, giggling.
"Did I tell you 'bout that time in Atlan... Atlan..." Atlantic City was proving difficult to pronounce, so House just said, "that time in that place, when he found me an alibi, so nobody would know I kind of killed somebody? Thass a real friend."
House's brow furrowed in remembrance. "Course, he turned me into the cops later, but tha' was for something else entirely," he explained.
"I know what you mean!" Kay shouted, waving her mostly empty bottle dangerously. "I don't even know how many times Delia bailed me out. We were, we were, we were..." Kay seemed stuck on that phrase, so House hit her.
"Ow! What was that for?"
"You were skipping. Like a record. I'm a doctor, I cured you."
"Ohhhh," Kay said in realization. "Thank you. Anyway, we were like Bonnie and Clyde or something. Only it was like Bonnie and Bonnie, 'cause we were both girls. But I loved her," Kay said with deadly earnestness. "Yes I did. And not just like 'Oh, you're my friend and I love you,' loved her. It was serious love. I never told her, I couldn't because that's really awkward. Did that ever happen to you?"
"Did what ever happen to me?" House said, attempting to take another sip from his bottle of whiskey. He missed his mouth the first couple of times, but he made it there eventually.
"Did you ever fall for someone you worked with or were friends with or whatever? And you couldn't say anything because you don't know how they feel and you don't want to, want to, want to risk what you already have? And, and, and so you jus' sit and wait for it to go away and it never does and then one day they're gone," Kay was sounding dangerously close to teary, "and you'll never get them back. And you wonder all the time if you shouldn't have just for-fuck's-sake said something."
There was something in Kay's rambling speech that niggled at House, trying to penetrate the dense haze of alcohol that was fogging his brain.
Kay hiccupped. "You ever hafta deal with that? It's even worse when you're kind of gay," she whispered, "And your friend seems kind of straight."
Gay. Wilson was kind of gay. Or at least, he blow dried his hair and liked The Village People.
Wait a minute...
He suddenly remembered Cuddy's voice. "You never told him, did you?" And Wilson's answer, that it was probably for the best.
"Oh shit."
The realization floored him. Literally.
"You're spilling the rest of your Jameson, dumbass," Kay said from somewhere above him. "That's considered a crime in some countries."
"He was in love with me!" House hadn't meant to shout, but his voice was nonetheless echoing off the walls and ceiling of his new apartment.
Kay tried to grab the now-empty bottle from beside him, but succeeded only in falling over herself. "Well, no shit, Sherlock," she mumbled into the floor.