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unlust-fvck · 5 months ago

Text

something, anything

word count: 1.7k

pairing: gregory house x james wilson

description: house shows up at wilson’s door, a usual occurrence. but this time, it’s different.

warnings: very angsty, slight fluff, house being closed off n stubborn. wilson is sad and a people pleaser if you squint. close ‘friends’.

a/n: trying to get into writing for house md and this is what my brain thought of :’) sorryyyy. i listened to ‘let down’ by radiohead on repeat while writing this lolz

Something was wrong.

As Greg stood in front of the apartment door, his arm raised, knuckles ready to softly knock on the door. He hesitated.

He wasn’t sure why he was even here in the first place. After a multitude of missed calls from James, would he even give Greg the light of day? He wouldn’t. Yet, here he stood, leaning more than ever on his cane in hopes it would alleviate the heavy, pitting feeling in his stomach.

House finally made up his mind and gently knocked on the door, not even sure what he would say. As he attempted to formulate something, anything, he was met with soft, brown eyes.

James’ eyes met Greg’s; like an old friend. Someone that you weren’t even sure you could call a friend anymore. Someone you’d see in passing and exchange a courteous smile that meant something a lot more.

As Greg stood there, he opened his mouth, yet faltered. His eyes never left Wilson’s, which spoke volumes.

The younger man’s brows furrowed, drawing up in something Greg couldn’t decipher; pain? No, maybe pity? Whatever it was though, he immediately regretted coming here. At the end of the day, his problems were his own anyway.

Wilson finally spoke, “Hi.” Though only one word, it spoke volumes. His mouth remained open as he thought of anything to say, yet failed. This wasn’t the first time House had shown up at his door with little to no context. It was nothing like this though.

The older man’s typical sarcastic, cynical demeanor seeming almost foreign to the shell of a man that stood before Wilson. Greg’s eyes were glazed, his stance almost cowering away from the doorway.

Greg’s grip on his cane increased as he chewed at his lip, still failing to come up with anything to say. James opened the door wider, enough for House to saunter in. It was a wordless invitation.

Wilson’s expression grew more concerned as House plopped onto the couch, his cane lazily propped between his legs. House’s walk was nothing like it typically was; a slow, uneven wobble as opposed to his steady limp. He just stared in front of him at nothing in particular in the all too familiar apartment, mouth feeling particularly dry.

James closed the door behind him and stood in front of House, hoping for him to say something, anything. When the older man did nothing but meet his eyes with a broken, defeated look, Wilson sighed.

“Where have you been?” He asked. A simple question that was yet difficult for House to answer.

Where hadn’t he been? In the past twenty-four hours, himself and Wilson had gotten into a blowout, he’d been to a bar for almost six hours straight in attempts to forget, and when all that gave him was a headache, he was then back at home, self-loathing. The place he spent the most time however, was his head.

His thoughts bounced around his head like a ping-pong ball. He had definitely screwed up with Wilson. From growing increasingly distant, to yelling at him in defiance when asked what was wrong, House didn’t deserve him. All Wilson wanted to do was help, but his problems were his own, Wilson of all people should’ve known that.

These thoughts had swirled around Greg’s head for the last day leading up until he found himself at the brown eyed man’s door.

His thoughts were silenced.

House had chalked it up to being selfish, or maybe a bad childhood? No matter the cause, he knew he was in the wrong as much as he hated to admit it.

“Home.” was what he settled with, the first words he had said to James since their argument. He wasn’t sure how this visit would end. Every beat of silence caused his stomach to flip. He thought he was going to be sick.

None of these internal conflicts were visible. All James saw was a fraction of an exhausted man before him. “Really, and you couldn’t return my calls?” Wilson asked, a tinge of annoyance in his voice, although he regretted it almost immediately. James was frustrated. He was ridiculed for trying to help, but he couldn’t sit idly by while Greg destroyed himself piece by piece.

House let out a breathy sigh and his eyes finally left Wilson’s. He resembled an injured dog, tail between his legs. There was only one way he could resolve this, though it wasn’t ideal. He fiddled with the handle of his cane for a moment, before speaking up.

“I’m sorry James.”

Wilson’s eyes never left House. The words came crashing at him like waves to a break wall. House’s voice was ragged, dull almost. Wilson wanted to curl up at his side and hold him to reassure him things would pass. He decided against it. He’d learnt his lesson with that anyway.

He wanted to settle for a simple ‘It’s alright’, but he’d be lying. It was never alright. The pushing and shoving away and apologies laced with sarcasm that James accepted anyways. He was so… tired? No. He could never get tired of House.

“What is going on with you?” He settled with. Nothing else he’d say would be productive anyways.

Greg’s eyes met his and for the first time, Wilson saw a flash of vulnerability make itself known. House had never been one to talk about his thoughts, let alone his problems. But, it was growing increasingly more obvious that it was becoming harder and harder to manage with every argument and slammed door.

“I’m not okay.” House admitted, the words leaving his mouth feeling like bricks being taken off of his chest. “I’m sorry for hurting you and I shouldn’t have yelled yesterday,” He added, wanting to go on but feeling as though anything else he’d say could be used against him.

Wilson nodded, eyes flicking from House to the floor. He then sat beside the older man, elbows rested on his knees and fingers interlocked into a balled up fist that his chin sat upon.

Greg’s eyes followed every move, picking up on every mannerism and noting them. He was an observer after all. Yet, he couldn’t decipher what the right thing to do was. House was a logical man with little room for emotions to take the reins. Maybe that was why he’d gotten himself into this mess into the first place. Relationships… Well companionship was foreign to him in the first place. If no one was around to hurt him, how could he be hurt?

Wilson stuck out; always coming back after every argument, every mistake, every day. He was always back. Just as nothing had happened.

House pitied him; he watched James take in the information, avoiding House’s eyes.

Wilson nodded, “Thanks.” he said finally, feeling small. “I want to help you,” he started, awaiting protest. When none came, he continued, eyes flickering between Greg and anywhere else in the room. “All of these fights.. fights because you don’t want help. You’re destroying yourself. You’re destroying me.” Wilson admitted, voice cracking ever so slightly. He had tried to choose his words carefully but abandoned that idea. House needed to know exactly where he stood. No more sugar coating.

House nodded, the words stinging. He felt a buzzing, hazy sensation in his head. He began to lie back into the sofa, sinking into the leather cushions. Wilson followed suit, observing House’s frame.

His bum leg was outstretched under the coffee table, the other bent in a way that would support his cane to rest between the two. He reached into his pocket and slipped his medication out of the bottle, swallowing dryly.

“I know,” House responded hoarsely, his adam’s apple bobbing. “I don’t want to hurt you more than I already have.” He added, his voice dropping into somewhere between a whisper and a mumble.

Wilson nodded. Maybe that was a start. Or who knows? House could just be making these empty promises in attempts to keep him for a reason he didn’t understand.

Although the voice of reason screamed at Wilson not to, his hand fell upon House’s knee, rubbing gently circles into it. No matter what happened, James would do what he could to keep House content, or at least alive.

They sat in silence for what felt like hours, neither of them having the courage to say anything else out of fear. Fear of argument. Yelling. Isolation. It was the last thing they needed.

Wilson stood, holding a hand out to House. Another wordless invitation.

House’s eyes fell to his hand. He pondered it, then stood up slowly, his cane in one hand, the other taking Wilson’s.

Wilson lead him to his bedroom. “It’s late, I want you to stay with me.” Wilson said, an order without room for objection.

House just nodded, setting his cane against his side — the empty side — of the bed. He emptied his pockets onto the vacant nightstand and sat atop the side of the bed, feeling numb.

James handed him spare clothes, swallowing thickly. The air was tense, just the sound of cars passing and the occasional dog barking diffusing it ever so slightly.

Wilson sat upon the other side of the bed, facing away as House changed. This wasn’t a new scene for the two, but it was different this time around.

Their relationship was complicated. Neither one of them admitting to anything other than friendship. The definition of friendship being too casual for the two, however the definition of relationship being too much commitment for either.

But, when Wilson’s eyes caught House’s now and again, something unsaid exchanged between the two. A pact, a union, whatever you’d want to call it. Something that said ‘I’m yours’. Something vulnerable. Something meaningful.

Sure, they’d bicker like a couple, not speak, then make up. They’d hold each other when things were too much. They’d reassure each other when they needed it most. Everything they did fell under a relationship-feeling category.

But saying it aloud was nothing more than a nuisance. They were friends. Friends leant on each other all the time. But as Wilson laid back, his neck against the pillow, something lit ablaze inside him when Greg’s head found its way to resting on his chest, eyes still refusing to meet his as they laid together.

House laid in his bed, on his chest, in his clothes, but friends did that too, right?

All of the definitions of friendship slowly melted away into an undefined companionship.

Maybe when things were better. Maybe when House was better. Maybe when they were better.

Wilson was content with the idea. After all, he’d be alright with something, anything.

Having some of House was better than none at all.

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