Sad fic...
“You start without me?”
House’s chuckle scrapes against the dark night air, making Wilson smile even though he knows House can’t see it. He carefully makes his way across the nearly pitch black space and settles beside House more by instinct than sight. House has lived at 221B for over 15 years and Wilson has been visiting him for most of it but until a couple of months earlier he’s never laid eyes on the small screened area behind the building. In another life it had probably been the summer kitchen or servant’s quarters for some wealthy Princeton family which had lived in the entire townhouse back then. Now it was storage, the large squat building sectioned off into rooms where tenants could house unneeded items. House had one of the rooms, a long narrow space at the end of the building the only one that had a screened portico that opened onto the alley.
House had brought him out there one night, slightly drunk, he’d wanted to look at the stars. Before the infarction he’d climb the ladder to the attic and then shinny out onto the roof and sit. Wilson could remember hundreds of times sitting side by side on that roof, talking business and bullshit, sometimes listening to traffic, sometimes just listening to each other breathe. He’d loved those times, the contented pleasure of simply being with each other, of connecting to another person in a way he had never felt before. He’d missed those nights, sometimes waking in the middle of the night and gazing out his window at the moon and stars and feeling so alone he thought it would crush him. He’d longed to get dressed and drive to House’s apartment, to drag his friend up to the roof and feel alive once again.
But House had surprised him one night, leading the way outside and across a cobbled path to the building. His key had made a soft whisper like a voice revealing a long held secret, and then they had been inside. It had been chilly and a little damp and House had sneezed three times so quickly Wilson hadn’t even gotten a chance to say Bless You until the echo was fading in the dark. House snapped on a light and the bare bulb made a puddle just large enough for them to see vague shapes. House didn’t have much to store, a few dusty boxes, his golf clubs, and skies, some furniture Wilson recognized as the dining room table Stacy had insisted on when she lived there, and his own circular saw, last seen nearly eight years earlier when House had wanted to build a workbench. The place felt forlorn, like something from the past clinging desperately to a present that did not want it. It reminded Wilson of his aunt’s home the night he and his brother had gone there with their father just after her death. They’d been told to close windows and turn off lights and though she had only been dead a few hours, as he walked through the silent rooms it was like a part of the home knew she wasn’t coming back. Now, walking behind House, he had the same feeling, the deserted and desolate feeling of things no longer needed, of passed by and forgotten. He’d repressed a shiver and kept going. At the far reach of a dim yellow bulb House had let them out into a four by six foot porch, screened from the night and the world around them. If they had been ten, it would have been a clubhouse or a fort or a secret lab. At forty six and forty, it’s just a quiet place to sit.
“Beer?” Wilson asks and reaches into the sack he carries. They sat on a bench House had gotten someplace, Wilson, having made it a bit more comfortable by throwing a blanket over the wooden seat. Their legs were stretched out onto a small trunk someone had left near the alley and House had ordered dragged inside as a footrest. He feels House’s fingers brush his own as he passes the beer and thinks for a moment that they feel colder than they should but then there is the pop of the cap and the dull ring it makes on the concrete. He tosses his own beer cap towards House’s and props his feet on the trunk too. They drink and listen to traffic and each other breathing. After a few minutes Wilson notices House’s breath sounds - wrong. He is breathing hard, as if he’s run a race or been woken from some dream by a sudden noise.
“You okay?”
“Uh-huh,” House answers but Wilson hears the lie beneath the assurance. “Remember the first time I kissed you?”
Wilson smiles and nods. “I don’t think Bonnie was expecting the Best Man to French her husband in the reception line.”
“But your parents were,” House notes with a chuckle.
“Yes, but they’d been exposed to you for several weeks at that point.” Silence falls over the small room but it is comforting and Wilson can’t help smiling to himself. He’d been surprised when House had captured his face in both hands and planted one on him. The good natured laughter which had followed had kind of died out when the kiss went on too long. But Wilson remembered how his chagrin had turned to acceptance and then to longing as they had kissed there in his In-law’s back yard. He’d known he and House were destined to be together but never really thought what form it might take. There had been vague talk of Uncle Greg visiting, holidays together and Boys Night Out, but both had known the thing between them defied that. It was twisted and snarled and dug too deep into their souls to let them go easily.
“Remember what I said that night?” House asks quietly and Wilson’s eyes have grown accustomed to the light. He looks over at House and sees he’s slumped against the arm of the bench. “I said ‘Til Death Do We Part.” Wilson shivers again and nods.
“I remember.” House makes a small gasping sound and curls forward. Wilson reaches out and puts his arm around his back, pulling him close. “You said that the poets were wrong then, that death wasn’t romantic or noble that it was just the end.” He breathed in House’s scent, warming the chilled hands with his own. “You said the only thing that mattered was how a person lived his life.”
“Did you write that down?” House teases.
“I remember everything you’ve ever told me,” Wilson says.
“Do you remember me telling you to stop being stupid and find someone who can make you happy?”
“When did you say that?” Wilson asks but his stomach is doing flips and the darkness around them seems to be getting deeper. “I am happy,” he says and he knows House can hear the lie in his voice. “I’m happy!”
“You’re a liar,” House whispers, “but I forgive you.” They sit, Wilson holding onto him as the stars shine down on them. House stirs and something falls from his hand, a syringe glinting in the light.
“Why didn’t I ever make you happy?” Wilson asks and he waits to see if House can answer.
It seems like the night is almost gone before House draws in a breath and says, “I don’t know. I wanted to be. I wanted to love you - I just didn’t know how.”
“It was enough," Wilson said quietly. "I've never needed very much."
House is heavy against his chest now; his head tucked beneath Wilson’s chin so that when he speaks his words resonate through Wilson’s sternum and seem to come from inside him. “I'm sorry it - wasn't more,” he says so painfully that Wilson closes his eyes and bites his lip. “Maybe you'll be luckier - next time.” He shudders, curling into himself a bit more, his hand tightly twisted into Wilson’s shirt. After a moment he blows out a breath and says, “You really were - happy?”
“Yes, House,” Wilson says through his tears, “I was happy. Thank you.” When the sun comes up an hour later he knows he will never be happy again in this life but he holds onto the memories of loving someone with his whole heart as dearly as he holds onto House's cold body.