Fic: Definitions, H/W
Title: Definitions
Author: Nakanna Lee
Pairing: H/W
Rating: PG
Summary: A reflection with some "missing" scenes from the first and second seasons.
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Friendship meant a lot of things. Things constituted as a horrifically generic word, enough to make any English aficionado cringe. But it was vague enough to smudge the black and whites of relationships and include the gray areas.
Wilson hadn’t been at House’s bedside during the infarction. Marriage number two was underway somewhere in a Caribbean suite. Head reeling, seeping with a medley of pain and morphine, House didn’t have the capacity to care. He hadn’t needed another human being to cling to during that; even Stacy had been a nameless shape beside him, who only wanted to end the trials he was willingly taking.
The ceiling was a nice, simple friend to have. He could stare at that for hours on end and it never questioned him. Its company was silent and stark. Unassuming.
Wilson hadn’t been there when House had been shot, either. He’d been talking concernedly to patient number four that morning already, reviewing some chemo treatment notes. Then there was an announcement over the hospital intercom for the diagnostician department to clear out, remain calm. Wilson’s immediate thought was wondering what House had done this time.
It was a strange sort of arrangement they had. They could talk circles around each other, toss banter back and forth, prod and poke. Somehow, they remained objective commentators on the other’s life.
A small part of House was grateful for Wilson’s crumbled marriages. It made him less heroic, a sort of Pyrrhic victor. He was like the Phillies over the last couple years: starting out the season great, then choking at the end of it.
He liked making fun of his rumored affairs, even when Wilson insisted he wasn’t having any. It was a nice fault to fall back on. It was one more thing Wilson had done that made him a slightly less better person than House in the relationship department.
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“You couldn’t even open yourself up enough to have an affair,” Wilson once retorted. He’d had no idea where that came from. They’d been sharing the apartment for just about two weeks. Already, he was up to his elbows with dishwater soap and up to his eyeballs with House’s disparaging remarks.
House scoffed, the grating sound matching his face’s scruffiness. “That’s right. I’m too insecure to cheat on anybody.”
It was one of those moments that neither felt like arguing and so they kept at it. House viewed it was a game to provoke and pry out information. Wilson liked trying to convince himself that he really was a good person.
“Those five years you lived with Stacy… You never cheated on her?”
“Define cheating.”
“Sleeping with someone else.”
“How about kissing?”
Wilson ran the sink water and got the bubbles off his hands. His sleeves were slightly soppy. “That depends.”
“Oh, what, you mean those little comfort kisses you give to blondes with sob stories? That’s not cheating?”
“House.”
“Of course it isn’t. And no. I never cheated on her. Whatever the definition is. Oh,” he added, as if tacking on bonus points, “I didn’t have the magazines either. She threw those out, said they were distasteful.” He shrugged, giving a dramatic eye-roll.
“Why didn’t you cheat?”
“Why do you cheat?”
“I asked you first.”
“What, are we in the third grade? Besides, I think my question is a bit more relevant. We don’t ask historians why Hitler wasn’t voted Time’s Person of the Year. We ask why he decided to throw the biggest world domination party of the twentieth century.”
“Is there a point to this?”
“I’m more interested in why you do things, not why you don’t do them.”
“Why? Both have reasons.”
“It takes more self-control not to cheat.”
“So wouldn’t that make it more complicated?”
“What’s complicated? There’s a choice, I made it. You made another one.”
“Mine’s only more interesting to you because you don’t know the answer.”
“Very telling, isn’t it? So tell away.”
Wilson tossed up his hands in defeat. He had made a better point, yet still House would win the argument. He consulted the dry cloth for a moment, letting it soak the water from his soap-softened hands.
“I’m not having this conversation right now.”
“Right.”
House let it drop. He dropped conversations like a child drops the family’s good china-unexpectedly. It always got someone’s attention.
In two minutes, Wilson was sighing, crossing his arms and leaning a shoulder halfway against the wall. House smirked as Wilson embarked on another moral justification.
“Just because an emotion is impulsive doesn’t mean it’s insincere. And if people don’t act on emotions-” He raised his chin pointedly at House “-then they just fester and clutter until either you explode one day-”
“Or you’re grumpy and you walk around with a cane for the rest of your life. Nice.”
“You’re hopeless.”
“I’ve been told so.” House wriggled an eyebrow, permitting Wilson to smile. Very few of their arguments ever left scars. Some bumps and bruises, of course, but those were endurance injuries that every friendship earns over the years.
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And friendship meant a lot of things. It meant a few harsh words when they were called for. It meant trekking after each other when the other would rather be alone. It meant pushing each other’s buttons and knowing the fated reaction, but just wanting to analyze it again, to encourage some spark of emotion across the other’s face.
Just because they could. Because they wanted to. Because it was a security net that had to be tested every once in a while.
House did the dishes once, just to see what Wilson would say. The oncologist was perplexed, cautious, but impressed-almost overly so, as if a certain understanding had been settled wordlessly between them and needed to be encouraged.
House made sure not to even look at the sink for the following two weeks. Wilson’s perturbed reaction was oddly gratifying.
“I got a chemistry set when I was little,” Wilson reflected late one night.
“From Santa?” House said, completely straight-faced. He tilted his head. “Oh wait, you’re Jewish. Don’t you have Menorah elves or something?”
Wilson rolled his eyes. He didn’t know why he bothered acting exasperated around House; it seemed like a waste of energy, he did it so much. “Birthday present.”
“Did you burn anything down?”
“There wasn’t anything flammable in the kit. There were just some substances you could mix together in water to get different reactions. Some changed colors, some bubbled. Others dropped in temperature.”
“Exciting.”
“It should be. That’s what you do to people. You like gauging reactions.”
“I personally like the bubbling one. All that gurgling as it spills over the beaker. Good ol’ baking soda and vinegar.”
“You like causing reactions.”
“None more than yours.”
“Why?”
“Because you try so hard to make things look simple. There are molecules being split and chemical reactions waging war in all that water. And you want to explain it by saying, ‘Well, I just dumped in this mixture with this mixture.’”
“House?”
“Actions are simple. Motives aren’t.”
“Thanks for that.”
“You’re welcome. So. Are you going to do those dishes now?”
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When Wilson moved out, House had thought back to the night of his date with Cameron more times than he’d ever admit. Not the date, exactly. The prepping for the date.
I have been on a date before.
Uh, not since disco died.
He played back Wilson’s lilting tone, seeing him again suavely peruse the paper. House knew he hadn’t been reading any of the articles. He’d been stuck on the paragraph about Alan Greenspan retiring for the past half-hour. It couldn’t have been that interesting.
The tie was more than annoying; it was the bane of all men’s clothing as far as House was concerned. He’d sighed, frustrated, letting it hang crumpled around his neck like a half-hearted decoration.
This was a mistake.
Wilson had joined him when he’d recovered the white flower from the fridge. Sure, it was corny. Why didn’t he buy balloons and ride up to Cameron’s place in a horse-drawn carriage? Wilson’s affirming grin, though, had smoothed out his brief flush of nervousness.
The younger man had then walked him back in front of the mirror, running commentary about the sad state of his tie. He reached from behind so his right and left hands were lined up with House’s, explaining the steps as he fixed the clothing in the mirror.
“Watch. You had this side too short before.” House had heard this tone before. It was the soft, unassuming voice he used for patients. A tinge of confidence colored it. “Now cross under here, pull, twist, and thread through the loop. Slide this knot up. Don’t strangle yourself-there.”
House watched Wilson’s hands move almost elegantly along the tie. His arms felt heavy, but strangely comfortable, around his shoulders. He stepped conservatively forward when Wilson leaned in a bit too close, his chest brushing House’s back.
Suddenly defensive, House swatted Wilson’s hands away when the tie was almost finished. “I can take it from here.”
“You’re pulling it too tight-”
“I got it-”
Wilson reached for House’s wrists. His fingertips were warm against the skin. House could smell a faint scent of newspaper print, blending interestingly with whatever fading cologne Wilson wore. He stiffened, but let Wilson’s hands guide his slowly the rest of the way.
Meticulous as ever, the younger man fiddled with the collar of House’s shirt until it laid straight and crisp, like the tie.
“There. A lot better than Lou Costello.”
House waited for Wilson to move. Shallow breathing lapped patiently at his neck, overdue to depart. He stared at the perfect knot of his tie in the mirror, not bringing his eyes to meet Wilson’s in the glass.
“I’m going to be late.”
“You’re always late.”
Then Wilson stepped away, and absence filled the space again. He returned his article on Greenspan, and House half-wondered if he planned on leaving anytime soon, or would wait there like a kid on Christmas-er, Hanukah-morning for him to return bearing gifts, stories of the date.
House tapped his cane impatiently against the side of the couch. “You going or what?”
“Are you?” The paper crinkled amiably as Wilson set it down like a blanket over his torso and waist. He craned his neck back, looking up at House without moving. His tousled hair looked ridiculous against the neatness of his office attire. House stifled a smile he hadn’t even been expecting.
“I said, I’ll be late.”
Wilson took the hint, rising from his seat and walking with House to the door. “Call me when you get back.”
“Who knows?” House said cryptically with a wry smirk. “Might be a long night.”
It was. Painfully long. He amused himself by trying to decipher the pronunciation on the menu and fiddling with his tie.
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It was always Wilson who brought up friendship. He needed a definition for it, as if smacking labels on things made them simpler. This is marriage and this is love and this is comfort. They were as clear-cut as determining the benign and malignant masses on scans.
Our friendship is an ethical responsibility… This stupid, screwed-up friendship… You’re trying to objectively measure how much I value our friendship?
If House heard that word one more time out of Wilson’s mouth, he was going to snap. No one talks about something that much unless they’re insecure about it. Lack of confidence was the most intolerable quality of all, as far as House was concerned.
Foreman had brushed close enough to death for his knees to be scraped a bit, and House was in a foul mood even after the fellow had been released from the hospital. In the meantime, he’d still refused to talk one-on-one with Foreman, something Wilson insisted he should do. House then invited Wilson over for dinner in the façade of talking about it.
But instead, the evening had been filled with some less than funny remarks about the whole situation, culminating with Wilson cleaning up again.
The oncologist rarely let his frustration boil over to an outwardly physical reaction. But the dishes were clanking just a bit louder as he put them away. House was busy doing nothing on the living room sofa.
“How does this friendship even work?” Wilson demanded.
The dreaded word was drowned out by House’s mocking moan. “Oh, God, not this again.”
“You wonder why you’re alone, House? It’s because you push people away.”
“And so why are you here?”
“Doesn’t say much for my sanity, does it?”
“But your stamina. Whew,” House complimented archly, “now that’s gold medal-worthy.”
House pretended not to watch as he put the glasses and dishes away. While Wilson had been living with him, he’d organized the cabinets. House just managed to stop him short of labeling the utensil drawers.
“Why are you doing my dishes?”
“Because you won’t do them.”
“So? Why is that you’re problem?”
“Because if I don’t do them, this apartment will turn into the biggest dump site in the tri-state area.”
“So?”
Wilson looked up. House’s responses were tired and lacked effort. Dipping them in sarcasm seemed to be all he could manage at the moment.
Sighing, he left the pot soak in the sink, dried off his hands again and wandered over to the living room. He gazed down at House, who had his legs propped up on the coffee table and cane loyally lying nearby. He blinked his blue eyes uncaringly before returning to a medical journal article that wouldn’t have even interested its author.
“You’re blocking my light.”
Wilson stepped sideways from the lamp. “I’m going home now.”
“Fine.”
Neither moved. House struggled through a few bland sentences in the journal, then eventually looked up.
“Well?”
“House. Would it kill you to care?”
“About you leaving? About Foreman? About the state of the union?”
“About anything.”
House rolled the word around in his mouth. “No,” he allowed slowly, “but it would probably hurt very much.”
Wilson spread his arms out helplessly, letting them fall with a surrendering slap against his jeans. His hands rested on his hips. House looked up again, knowing that stance meant trouble.
But a lecture never came. Wilson only gazed at him, daring House to meet his eyes just as steadily.
Sitting lower on the couch was like curling up in inferiority. House reached for his cane and stood up. He had an extra two inches or so on Wilson, which was nice when trying to look down your nose at somebody.
“Do you need me to walk you home?” House asked sardonically.
Wilson leaned in before he processed what was happening. A peck of lips glanced off House’s cheek, so quick they might have never touched at all.
“No. That’ll be fine,” Wilson said evenly. He swayed forward for an instant, hands hesitating to feel the wrinkles of House’s shirt. The older man was frozen in a stare.
“What are you doing?”
“I don’t know.” Wilson shrugged, beyond the point of caring. He dropped his hands back to his sides, but House didn’t relax at all. “I thought you would have an explanation.”
“Should I?”
“You always do.”
The best House could come up with was a chaste press of lips to Wilson’s mouth. It lasted longer than it should have, but it was relieving not to have to sort through garrulous strains of words and reasons again.
Lips soundlessly parted moments later. House raised his chin skeptically, watching Wilson from the corner of his eyes.
“I’m not asking for anything,” Wilson murmured quietly. “All right?”
House nodded. He didn’t touch the neckline of Wilson’s t-shirt, no matter how inviting it was. “Fine.”
Wilson caught his limbs relaxing with reassurance. He kissed him once more before he left, memorizing the hint of tongue House tentatively offered.
“No more friendship talks,” he reminded Wilson abruptly. Wilson didn’t need to ask; he just brushed his mouth against House’s lower lip in place of a nod.
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END