White Rabbits       

(Note: This is my first ever fan fic. If you comment please be kind. I've
tried my best.) 

 

One pill makes you larger... 

 

Before he had even opened his eyes he knew it was going to be a bad day.
No, not a bad day; all days were bad by now. A worse day. His leg had
woken up hours before he'd found consciousness and had nagged its way into
his dreams, until the alarm called 8am and all of a sudden he was
painfully aware of what it was that had infected the usual deep blackness
of his sleep.  

 

There was little time to curse the usual curse though, as a need for
Vicodin, the itch which had stealth fully infiltrated his thoughts under
cover of his leg, lain low, a sliver or blaring, warning red, kicked in
with a violence he hadn't expected. He'd recognised it's growing daring
over the past few days; washing into the back of his head before catching
him off guard, but had so far ignored it's progress. He'd even managed to
convince himself that the addiction was proportional to the pain in his
leg. 

 

He loved that need and he hated it. These days it was useful. It eclipsed
all other need, and unlike those other needs, it was easily satisfied in
one or two tiny tablets. Lying there, weighing up the pros and cons of
moving to find the pill bottle and remaining where he was so as not to
aggravate master pain, Addiction out ran the hunger, the thirst and the
need to urinate by far. It even made a good battle of comfort and need for
sleep, so finally, with a groan; he rolled out of bed, grabbed his cane
and made for the lounge. 

 

The pill bottle stood, cap off, on the table, surrounded by empty beer
bottles and plastic take-away containers. The room smelt salty and sour.
He remembered his evening spent in front of the TV, acting the indifferent
to no particular audience. Just him self, but he'd never have admitted to
that. He might have noticed as he picked up the small plastic bottle that
it was significantly lighter than he'd remembered it to be the last time
he'd had a clear head, but he instructed himself not to; and anyway,
plenty more where that came from. He might have noticed that the bottle's
position, open on the lounge table, instead of by his bed, was peculiar,
but he reminded himself that he had simply forgotten it last night. Vague
memories of downing three and stumbling drunkenly to bed, safe in the
knowledge that extra Vicodin coupled with the copious amounts of alcohol
would see him through the night, flashed up but were dismissed.  

 

He dry swallowed 2 pills then looked about the room. It was dark; the
blinds pulled down; stripes of the morning sun streaming in through the
gaps. For a moment, as he stood, leaning on his cane in the shadows of the
room, he couldn't help but feel hidden from the world. That was the way he
liked it.  

 

As he emerged from the bathroom minutes later the phone rang and he headed
in the opposite direction. Not so much to stop himself answering it (that
was common practice) as to make a point. But to who? The answer phone cut
in and after a curt message and the bleep Wilson's voice rang out. 

 

"House? I know you won't answer. I just..." There was an awkward pause
which had all the bearings of something rather profound and sentimental.
House ignored it. It was just Wilson. 

 

"I suppose I'll see you later." Wilson rang off.  

 

Nothing was new, so House made straight for his office when he finally
arrived, late as ever, at work. It wasn't the best place to hide, he knew,
but he was in no mood to be hanging around the clinic and his leg wasn't
going to let him spend the day trawling the corridors, balking at any sign
Wilson. Or Cuddy. 

 

He sat for a while, watching the hall way outside, ready for any
confrontation. No one appeared. He relaxed; gulped down 2 Vicodin (he
didn't really need them. Dutch courage he would have supposed) and took
out his Ipod. 

 

And one pill makes you small... 

 

Twenty minutes or so later, Wilson appeared outside the office. House
watched as Wilson nearly passed without even a look in. At the last
moment, however, he did look, and House, knowing he'd been seen, but
unready, ducked below the desk, his leg cramping as he did so. If his
being seen hadn't given him away, the growl of pain from behind the desk
certainly did. 

 

"House?" Wilson sounded half amused, half worried.  

"He's not here," can a reply, from somewhere under the desk, "Try the
clinic." 

Wilson raised his eye brows, and waited. Houses head emerged. "Oh it's
you." He feigned delight, but the disappointment seeped through. "I
thought you were Cuddy. Been after me all morning. Won't take `no' for an
answer." He levered himself up and into the chair.  

"Clinic duty?" 

"Yeah," said House, looking innocent, "What else?" 

Wilson rolled his eyes, as House shook 2 more Vicodin from the bottle and
shovelled them into his mouth, "simply irresistible," he said dryly. House
shrugged. As he laid the pill bottle on the table, Wilson picked it up and
shook it. "How many have you taken today?" House snatched it back. "Mine!"
he snapped, "Don't you have anything better to do? Kittens to save?
Patients to date? How is Miss Needy Number ....I forget. You still playing
Prince Charming?" 

"It's not like that. She's just a friend." 

House nodded, "Sure." 

"We're not all as sex-starved as you House." House simply snorted. There
was a silence in which he was sure Wilson would leave. The tone of his
last remark had been one of great annoyance. However, he did not move.
Instead he put his hands in his pocket and tried to assume a calm,
collected stance before he said, "It's over anyway."  

House looked up from his Ipod. "What happened? She get better? You didn't
accidentally cure her did you?" 

This niggled Wilson, who shifted his feet awkwardly, then, recomposed
himself. He wasn't going to take the bait. "No. She met someone else. Said
I didn't put the time in." 

"You never do." 

"Thanks." 

Suddenly House realised why Wilson was here. Here it came. The begging.
The crawling back. To be honest, in his mind, House had placed this scene
at midnight one dark stormy night, Wilson kneeling in his doorway, bags in
hand, begging House to let him move back in. This setting was
disappointing, but was made up for by this being a double victory. Not
only had Wilson come crawling back, he'd been the first to close the
distance between then and give up the reticence which had descended upon
the two of them ever since... 

"What do you want anyway?" House asked. Better get it over and done with.
Wilson didn't even stop to think. He shrugged. "Nothing really." And with
that he turned and left a thoroughly disappointed House. 

 

 

 

And the ones which mother gives you... 

 

In facing Wilson, House assumed that he'd broken a barrier and there would
from then on be a constant stream of Wilson to keep him company. He was
wrong, however, as over the next week they barely saw each other. They'd
passed in the corridor once or twice, Wilson had been called up to the
meeting room for advice on patients (much to House's displeasure once he'd
begun to realise nothing had changed and his avoidance tactics were still
needed in battle), but Wilson seemed to have boycotted the cafeteria
altogether, and his office empty of him more often than not. 

 

House didn't allow himself to dwell on it too much, and none of the
ducklings seemed to find Wilson's ghostliness strange. He assumed things
had just evolved. This was just part of a natural cycle. But there was one
thing which he couldn't help but wonder. Where was Wilson living? He knew
all the tell-tale signs in Wilson that things were hard, but none of them
had revealed themselves, as he had expected, during their brief
encounters. Wilson had no girlfriend, and House had a couch. It made
sense. So why hadn't Wilson said anything? 

 

This question irritated House for days and with Wilson not around to bear
the brunt of his annoyance, his team had to deal with it. It mounted until
one evening days later he unplugged the DVD played which Wilson still
hadn't picked up, threw away the hair dryer which was still on the floor
of the bathroom and untidied the closet. A small effort to rid the place
of anything Wilson related, but it made him feel more in control. Why
should he feel slighted by Wilson? He hadn't even wanted him to move back
in. He'd just wanted the satisfaction of Wilson wanting to. But, as he lay
on the couch, beer in hand, leg atop a pile of pillows, he found the
discontentment he felt was, in fact, loneliness, and what ever he told
himself, he did want Wilson back. 

 

Anyone other than House who took any kind of interest in his Vicodin
addiction would have seen that the addiction was less proportional to the
pain in his leg, and more so to his lack of Wilson. It was not a
one-or-the-other situation - the pills won every time hands down - but
both did jostle in his subconscious for power. 

 

House found the remote and flicked off the TV. He finished his beer and
dismounted the pile of cushions. Steadying himself with the arm of the
couch, he found his cane and limped to bed. 

 

If you go chasing rabbits... 

 

"Wait. You spent all that time trying to get rid of me, and now you want
me to move back in?" 

"Yeah. Keep up." 

"Why?" 

"A guy can change his mind can't he?"
 "Sure. A guy. But since when did you change your mind?" 

"Do you want the couch or not?" 

Wilson stared at him for a moment. They were stood in Wilson's office;
House had managed to corner him before his first consult. Everything was
very quite, as House watched Wilson sigh, shrug, then bring his eyes up
from the floor to look House straight in the eye. 

"Well..." The waver of Wilson's voice coupled with his sigh caused a jolt
in House forcing him to realise how much this was going to cramp his leg
if Wilson answered in the negative. He imagined how he must look stood
there, expectant and almost eager. He should never have been in that
position. He was giving in too much. Wanting it too much. His addiction to
Vicodin had evolved into a relationship; he was used to it. It was
reliable, never demanded anything he couldn't give and it was perfectly
open. It worked for him. On the other hand, his relationship with Wilson,
he felt, was dangerously close to becoming an addiction. And this kind of
addiction was not predictable. It was sleeker, more camouflaged than the
pain and the need which woke him up every morning. He found it in the
strangest of places and it surprised him regularly. He didn't know how to
deal with this need and he didn't want to think about it. 

 

Instinct. That's what it was, he decided. Wanting Wilson to move back in
was a reflex. It couldn't be helped. What else could he do in the
situation? 

"I don't think that would be a very good idea." 

"Why?" 

 

He knew why and he knew, very quickly then why Wilson hadn't come to him
for a place to stay. They weren't as cool as he thought. When bad things
happened, House was the expert at covering them up. Often, he didn't even
notice them. Wilson didn't work like that. He faced everything straight
on. He was still facing this. He still gave no clues about his declining
the offer though. 

"Think, House." 

He didn't think. He was sick of thinking. He wasted enough time on this
already. Giving House a beaten, but unscathed look, he left. Wilson turned
abruptly. "House!" But House had already left. 

 

 

Go ask Alice... 

 

The familiar knock came that evening, during the commercial break of the
O.C. House, sprawled across the couch, smiled. Nothing happened for a
moment and then the knock came again. 

"Use your key, moron. I'm not getting up." 

There was a pause, then the sound of a key rattling in the lock and the
door opened. It wasn't quite midnight and the day's rain had by now
subsided to only a drizzle, it didn't seem to matter. Wilson dropped his
bag by the door and came to sit by House. House didn't make any room for
him. "Don't think so. Not on my couch. You're wet." Wilson snorted and
disappeared into the bathroom for a moment. He re-emerged moments later
looking a little drier, towelling his hair. 

"Why'd you come back?" asked House carelessly, without averting his eyes
from the TV. 

"Can't a guy change his mind?" 

This time House moved over, allowing Wilson to sit down. The O.C. began
again. 

"Want a beer?" 

"I wouldn't mind." 

"In the fridge. Get me one." 

Wilson got up again and fetched them two bottles each before flopping back
down on the couch.  

"Have you still got my DVD player?" 

"Nope. Sold it." 

"Whatever."  

Silence. 

"I'm not sorry, you know." 

"Me neither. Got $200 for it." 

House expected what never came. The "I didn't mean that and you know it"
was never spoken. It wasn't needed. 

 

He knew the conversation had to be had, but it was his natural reaction to
avoid it. He waited for Wilson's second attempt, which never came.Nothing
was said for a while and both sat watching the TV. 

 

He wasn't sorry. House digested this information and a fresh pang of worry
slid through him, behind it, The Need was back. He put it off. Put
everything off. Wilson wasn't sorry. Ok. Fine. Thing's weren't going to be
quite as simple as he'd expected when he'd first decided he needed Wilson
back, but whatever. Nothing was ever simple with him. He'd deal with it. 

 

But then, really, House wasn't sorry either. The whole thing had opened
flood gates which, for the past few weeks, as he avoided Wilson, he'd been
desperately trying to close. The night before Wilson had called him he'd
finally made himself comfortable in the situation, only to find a new
problem presenting itself the next day. But, with Wilson now installed on
the opposite side of the couch, it hadn't been a complete loss.  

 

He was too tired for all this. "Gonna turn in," he announced, and stood
up. Wilson jumped up also and found the remote. House said, "I'll find you
a blanket," but then didn't move. Instead, throwing caution to the wind,
and over come by a sense of really not caring anymore, he pulled Wilson
toward him and kissed him. It was neither subtle nor graceful. Wilson
tasted thickly of coffee, but as House's tongue was met eagerly by
Wilson's, he knew the past few weeks had been everything but a complete
loss. 

 

When they pulled apart he saw Wilson's eyes sparkle. 

"You've changed your tune." 

"Blankets in the bedroom," said House gruffly. Wilson smiled and
obediently made for the bedroom. House stayed behind a moment. Need had
re-appeared. He looked at the little white plastic bottle of Vicodin which
sat peacefully on the piano. He moved over to it; picked it up; rotated it
in his hands. He knew taking any would blur the evening, numb the feeling.
And as he thought about it, something brighter and stronger than Need
crept through him. Then he set the bottle back down. And followed Wilson
into the bedroom. 

 

The End