Waiting for Wilson
He starts playing the piano but stops after three bars and pops a Vicodin. He's feeling sick and he's aching all over, but he knows that the Vicodin is not going to help him much now. It isn't going to take away his withdrawal symptoms. Nor will the Bourbon, and yet he takes a sip.
He has always known that depending on people is a bad idea. He prefers substances. At fourteen, he discovered booze; at sixteen, it was his best friend.
The words cause an ache in his throat, but he washes it away with a gulp of Bourbon. After the infarction, Vicodin became a more important companion than alcohol, but booze still is a good buddy. He takes another pill with another sip. Substances may be difficult to obtain sometimes (due to the whims of people mostly) but they neither run nor reject.
People do.
He closes the piano with an accidental bang. The clock tells him it's almost nine. He growls. He nearly can't take it anymore.
Anticipation isn't a mixed blessing; it's living hell.
He stands and stumbles towards the couch, but finds he can't sit still.
God, this is getting out of control.
He closes his eyes. The movie starts. He knows it well.
()()()
It always begins with the particulars of the last fight—the wording of insults, the location of blows—but soon it cuts to the night Wilson turned up to move in to live with him. The turning up as such didn't signify any major change in their relationship, and the suitcase and bags Wilson had brought could easily have implied yet another impending divorce, but the look on James's face could not, and nor could his words.
"Are you sure about this, House?"
"Yeah, come on in."
His voice was rough with an edge of indifference that he put in there deliberately, but he had to force himself not to drag Wilson over the doorstep and pin him against the wall before kissing the snot out of him, and to let him step inside on his own volition instead.
The pinning did happen though, as did the kissing. House smashed his lips against Wilson's and probed him with his tongue until they were both out of breath and his leg gave out on him.
"Bedroom," Dr. Wilson ordered.
House quickly dry swallowed a Vicodin. They had done this before.
He knew how to bring Wilson to complete surrender, to strip him of the ability to do anything other than breathe, "God, House, I…. Oh, God, please…. Please, House… House…."
Wilson knew how to drive House out of his mind, to make him swear from pleasure. They knew their 'sex kit' had to contain Vicodin besides condoms and a lubricant—or at some point House's leg would loudly declare that the fun they were having was, in fact, no fun at all.
They knew it would be good. Better than anything else.
They were right.
The movie behind House's eyelids cuts to the morning after Wilson had moved in with him.
He was making breakfast (men in love do crazy things) when Wilson appeared in the doorway. His hair was tousled, and traces of sleep rendered his face soft looking, making his dark eyes stand out brightly.
House didn't say, "I love you." It wasn't as bad as that. But he did hear his voice tremble dangerously when he said, "God, you're beautiful."
The left corner of Wilson's mouth quirked a little. "House? Are you sure you're all right?"
The shock he felt at his emotional nakedness was kissed away by James's soft lips and agile tongue, but that didn't prevent House from reminding himself never to be without irony again.
()()()
He opens his eyes. He hasn't been without irony since he was nine. In his teenage years, he added sarcasm to his repertoire, and cynicism after the infarction. He still has the ability of being sincere, but prefers not to use it too often. Sincerity is easily taken for weakness.
House isn't weak. He knows it's better to reject than to be rejected. He knows how to pick up a fight, especially with Wilson. He knows what words to use to hurt James most, how to brace himself against Wilson's retaliations, how to make him pack his suitcase and leave.
One might think that House is the rejectee in this process, but he's not. He provokes the rejection; he starts it. He's the one in control.
He knows Wilson. The magnitude of James's rescue complex is historically unprecedented, but the man's healing powers are his true tragedy.
In his private life, that is. When it comes to his profession it's an asset, House has to admit. But Wilson's interest in patients—as opposed to cases—never ceases to amaze and annoy him. According to the apparent Wilson adage, oncology isn't about curing cancer; it's about enhancing the quality of patients' lives.
And James does some fervent enhancing at Princeton-Plainsboro, seeing no harm at all in resorting to other than medical measures, like providing personal attention, and—oh, horror—actually caring.
In House's opinion, a good physician doesn't care for his patients; he's interested in curing their diseases. Or—on a more fundamental level—in finding out what the fuck is wrong with them.
House is interested in solving complex riddles. A patient's cure is of importance only because it can be objectively measured to prove that he found the right diagnosis. The quality of a patient's life is of no concern to him.
But he has to admit—again—that neither Wilson's preoccupation with people's wellbeing, nor his talent for curing them, has any detrimental effect on his professional functioning.
It's his private life where things go wrong, because James is addicted to damsels in distress.
Over the course of time, House noticed that the Wilson's fiancés all could have been cover girls for 'Female Vulnerability Weekly'. (He suspects James subscribed to this magazine at fifteen—the age he himself was stealing Playboys and Penthouses from stores, just like any normal guy). Former Mrs. Wilsons however, are without exception icons for feminism.
James heals his wives, and once mended, they have no need for him anymore, nor do they provide a challenge to him. Hence, divorce.
Being addicted to healing his lovers, that's Wilson's true tragedy.
House knows himself to be damaged, in more than one sense. He also knows he needs to stay damaged, or Wilson will lose interest.
He's not in any imminent danger to be mended. Being annoyed with Wilson when they spend too much time together comes natural to him. He can only take so much caring before it becomes smothering and causes a desperate longing to be able to breathe freely again. But the thought of Wilson growing weary of his company brings on full-blown panic attacks and has him gasp for breath even more. Then he knows they need a break. That's when he starts a fight.
It usually matches the previous ones in messiness, with Wilson giving as good as he gets—and storming out of the apartment at some point.
The first hour House experiences nothing but relief. He can breathe again. He is free again. He doesn't need anybody. Two bottles—one filled with Vicodin; the other with Bourbon—a tivoed episode of the L-word on mute on the tube, and House is a content man.
During the second hour, withdrawal kicks in. Thoughts of Wilson start to haunt him. Sweet thoughts.
Of Wilson's skilled hands kneading his right thigh on really bad leg days—the feeling more soothing than a fistful of Vicodin ever can be. Of the sight of Wilson's nape, always causing a lump in House's throat—and one between his legs.
Of Wilson's surprisingly smart retorts to House's mocking. Of his boyish victorious grins.
Happy. Wilson makes him happy. It's a good thing he only realizes that after a fight. Being happy and actually realizing it in the moment would be horrendous. Happiness is a very dangerous emotion. It has to be terminated as soon as possible—to prevent dependency on the person providing it.
As hours pass, and p.m. slips into a.m. only to slip into p.m. again, House's anticipation of Wilson's return takes on aching heights.
James will be still mad, still violent. He'll take control, as to prove to House that he is not to be toyed with—and that's only fair.
House never resists the pushing and shoving—or the undressing. Or the buggery. It always hurts—despite the Vicodin he pops as soon as he hears the door—because Wilson is rough and doesn't bother to get the lube. But it's always good.
Afterwards, James is completely guilt-ridden. House turns him belly-up, gets the lubricant, starts to finger fuck Wilson's ass. Gently.
He claims James' mouth, which welcomes him like a thirsting man's does water. Desperate, the claiming is—and the being claimed.
When Wilson is all slick and loose, House removes his fingers and guides his cock into the crease of James' ass, pushing inside. He doesn't remove his mouth.
He rocks his hips. The hollow of Wilson's mouth becomes softer. James is melting.
"God, House, I…."
House is melting too.
I love you.
He doesn't say it, but he knows it's true. Without a doubt. Without a hint of fear. He's well aware of the liquid, open, vulnerable feeling he can only bear at times like this, during the aftermath of a bout of domestic violence.
()()()
It's nine o' clock now. He pops a Vicodin. It's supposed to have a relaxing effect, but it doesn't. House isn't surprised. When he's in a state like this, nothing helps, except of course an overdose of some kind.
But he doesn't want to OD. He wants Wilson. He yearns to experience the aftermath feeling again. He yearns to extract another "God, House, I…." from Wilson's lips. He even craves Wilson's manhandling him.
He yearns for James to come home.
Again.
END