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It's late when House finally makes it back to his office, his hanta virus patient finally responding to treatment now that they know what to treat her for. He thinks it says something vaguely profound about the sin of comfort that a woman who traveled halfway across the country to ease her asthma returned with something far worse that nearly killed her. Whatever it says, however, is too morbid to contemplate at this late hour as he walks the darkened, empty hallways, the echoes of his footsteps out of time with the cadence of the rain that's been steadily falling all day. The shadows of the water sluicing down the windows follow him, seem to chase him, and though this part of the swing shift is usually his favorite for its near silence, tonight it's a little unsettling.
The shadows track him all the way to his office, playing disconcertingly off the glass and looking as though they're alive. When he enters and recognizes the misplaced darkness in the room as Wilson, a clap of thunder sounds out loud and strong. House can't help but sigh: nature's always had an overdeveloped sense of drama.
Wilson doesn't even stir and House knows it's bad. He doesn't have to see the deepened lines on Wilson's face or the fading wetness in his eyes; he can read it in the defeated slump of his shoulders and the weariness that's part of his every breath. House sets his cane aside and sits beside him, ready to wait him out. One of the things Wilson's always wanted most is someone to listen to him, even when he's not saying a word.
They sit in silence and listen to the rain, its speed and rhythm unchanged since it started falling over ten hours ago. Wilson doesn't relax but he eventually starts to loosen, like a man's who had the weight lifted from his shoulders and is learning again how to move without it. It takes some time, the rain a steady, quiet accompaniment like tentative music and now that he's paying attention, House can hear the subtle shifts and changes.
After a while Wilson sighs softly in something like relief. Though House knows the weight he carries will never be gone because it's a part of who Wilson is, he can at least carry it now without fear of it crushing him. Still, when Wilson looks at him, House gets the feeling they've been hearing the rain differently the entire time. It bothers him for a reason he doesn't want to name.
"Andy," Wilson finally says, but House already knew. It's only the children who can affect Wilson like this anymore.
Andy is -- was -- a fourteen year old boy with a heartfelt grin and a wicked talent for garbage can basketball. He was a young fourteen, the sort of fourteen that still preferred video games to girls, that still watched cartoons with serious concentration, that hadn't yet been ruined by the indoctrination of social graces. The sort of fourteen, really, that House could relate to.
He'd known Andy better than most of his own recent patients because the choice between a kid and an adult has never been difficult for him to make. All people lie, but big people lie more than little people and at least little people usually extend you the courtesy of only lying about the big things. Screw taking a couple years off your age or fudging the weight on your driver's license; House has always believed you might as well go whole hog and lie about not liking Beth from social studies in the least when she's really the love of your little pre-pubescent life. If something's worth doing at all, it's worth doing grandly.
He doesn't mind kids so much in general and he's always had a soft spot for Wilson's kids in particular. Wilson never feels like he spends enough time with his younger patients and while House has his own theories on why that may be, none of them will stop Wilson from beating himself up or carrying needless guilt. So House wanders upstairs when he can and picks up the perceived slack. It makes Wilson feel better and though it doesn't do anything as miraculous as renew his own faith in humanity, a good round of garbage can basketball beats fixing the mistakes on Chase's crossword hands down.
Wilson sighs and rubs at his temples, helplessness written clearly in the gesture. It's an emotion House has never seen in this situation before and it makes him think there's something else going on he doesn't know about. It doesn't really matter, though, because he already knows what to do.
When Wilson's hand falls back into his lap, House reaches over and takes it in his own, offering comfort through physical contact because he knows that's how Wilson likes it best. Wilson turns to him and there's a familiar look in his eyes, one House recognizes easily. Wilson needs him and House has never been able to deny him anything, especially when he's the only one Wilson trusts to take care of him.
"Let's go," he says, reaching for his cane. Wilson holds the door open for him as they leave and offers him a tired smile of thanks, but the shadows cut across his face and it looks more like a broken promise.
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The rain takes them back to House's apartment, shadows shifting on Wilson's body in bed the same way they were shifting on his face in the office. He tastes like the scotch House gave him because Wilson's always needed an excuse, no matter how flimsy. House has gotten used to the taste over the years and now he almost likes it, rich and heavy on his tongue. It's a warm counterpoint to the gray taste of the errant droplets that dot Wilson's skin and the more he tastes, the further away he can chase the chill.
While House tastes, Wilson touches, complimentary even in their hedonism. Wilson's hands are greedy in a way he'd never admit to, gentle in a way he'd be proud of even though he doesn't touch House the way House likes to be touched; he's never bothered to learn. House hates himself a little more with every push, every press, because he's learned to want what Wilson will give instead.
House is careful as Wilson eases them down, his weight a solid presence lingering above. They trade now, Wilson's kisses sloppy in their eagerness; he's always been a careless lover. In turn, House's hands trace the paths of his bare skin, surprisingly soft because he expects each touch to finally be the one where he cuts himself on Wilson.
There's a blurred, breathy sound when Wilson lowers his hips and presses them together. It reminds House why he's there, that Wilson needs the release of being broken in the way only House can provide. He moves to comply, pushing on Wilson's chest until there's enough distance between them to take Wilson in hand. He's full and heated, familiar to House in a way he shouldn't be.
Wilson's lips search for House's own, but House turns his head away; something about Wilson's kisses feel more like a lie than even the morning after smiles. Wilson doesn't even notice, just breathes shallowly against House's neck as he settles into his rhythm. When House realizes they're sharing it with the rain, he isn't the least bit surprised.
Wilson grows needier, moves more insistently. He's gasping softly, making the sounds that build to the whimper House is waiting to hear. There's no other word for it, a desperate, broken sound that means Wilson's gotten the release he needs: not the physical, but the emotional. Empty of the responsibility, the frustration, the weight, he can start all over again. It's adultery and abuse of a friendship as catharsis and if he could, House thinks he'd hate him for it. But he knew Wilson was like this when he signed on, he got his confirmation the first time this happened.
There. That's almost it; it's starting to sound like it hurts and maybe in some way it does. House urges Wilson up, can see something akin to pain on his face, a growing urgency. He gives it up so prettily in these moments that House understands how he ends up here time and time again.
He tightens his grip, gives his wrist an almost resentful twist and that's it, the pretty, pretty whimper. Wilson squeezes his eyes tightly shut against the rush, body tense like he can stop it, like he's afraid of it. Then they snap open and that's never happened before, the intensity of his gaze making House feel caught.
"I did it," Wilson breathes as he comes and House doesn't know what he's talking about but he's too busy chasing his own to care.
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His leg rouses him a little past four and the first thing he notices is that the rain has stopped. He gets up for a pair of boxers and his Vicodin and when he comes back to bed, Wilson is laid out in a peaceful spread. There's something soft about him, too soft, almost…smudged. It doesn't make sense until House realizes it's chocolate.
When he was seven, his mother received a box of chocolates for her birthday. She left them out on the kitchen counter in the sun too long and they were already nearing melting when House discovered them. He remembers touching the tip of his finger lightly to each one in turn, matching them to the names printed on the inside of the lid. They were all smudged when he was done, the sharp lines of their decorations ruined by a pressure that shouldn't have been enough to leave a mark.
He hadn't wanted to take them or have them because they weren't his; he'd just wanted to see what they were like. Still, he couldn't resist the temptation of the smudge of chocolate on his finger. When he brought it to his lips, he thought he could taste the flavor of each one on his tongue.
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When House wakes, Wilson is already up. He showers and dresses quickly, making his way to the kitchen where he finds Wilson at the table with a cup of coffee and the morning paper. He smiles at House, the morning after smile House hates so much because it's no different from any other.
"Coffee?" he asks, sliding the partially completed crossword across the table as House sits. "I saved you half."
"You did it in ink," House accuses.
"Hey," Wilson says easily, setting House's mug down, "I'm not Chase. I can do it right."
House makes a noncommittal noise and picks up a pen. Wilson made the coffee too weak; he can tell by the way it smells. He'll have to wait until he gets to his office for a decent cup.
"So, I did it," Wilson says after a moment and House spares him a brief glance.
"Hm?"
Wilson nods at some papers lying on the table. "I filed."
The legal size documents are too big for their folder and over the top of it, House can just see "dissolution" and "marriage." He spares Wilson another glance, this one just a bit longer. "You need a place to stay?"
Wilson smiles and there's something smudged about this one that wasn't evident the first time. "Yeah."
House nods, working on his coffee and his puzzle. When he sets his pen down a while later he says, "Just keep your hands off my crossword. You got two wrong."
"I did not."
"No," House agrees, "you actually got four wrong, but I was trying to spare your ego."
Wilson laughs and when they leave, he backs House against the door, kissing him slow and sweet. House thinks he can taste chocolate. It tastes like his.
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The next few days pass by in a rush. They have two cases simultaneously: one legitimate, the other some actor Cameron's fluttery over. He's got nothing more puzzling than a cocaine addiction, but Cuddy insists House take the case anyway. In return, he tries to duck a mandatory reception celebrating a recent endowment, but Cuddy's been a stickler for rules as of late and he can't get out of it no matter what he tries.
That's how he finds himself beneath a crystal chandelier in a tie on Friday night, watching Wilson kiss Julie across the room.
He'd wrapped his arm around her slim waist and led her through the crowd to introduce her to Dr. Zimmerman, a fellow board member. As they'd talked, Wilson's hand had absently traced patterns on the small of her back with the comfortable familiarity of a longtime lover. A moment later he'd said something that made her tilt her head back in laughter and he'd dropped a quick kiss on her lips before she could right herself. When Dr. Zimmerman took his leave, Wilson had kissed her properly, then offered her a clear, bright smile.
House feels like he's going to be sick, so he reaches for his Vicodin and washes it down with warm champagne.
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House keeps himself busy for rest of the week and the week after that. So does Wilson, conspicuously enough. Through the grapevine and Wilson's secretary, who's always liked House too much for her own good, he learns that "I filed" really means "I had my lawyer draw up a draft." It doesn't mean it got served and it certainly doesn't mean it actually got filed. It just means that Wilson lied.
As bruised as he is, House has to give him credit: at least he did it grandly.
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When the rain starts the next evening, House can't take much of it and leaves the hospital early. On the way home, he stops and buys a box of chocolates, far more expensive than any his mother ever got.
He stares at them all night, but can't bring himself to touch them.
The next day, he does the only thing he can think of and gives them to Cameron.