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  In Threes 
 by Jaryn  

 "You need to get out of bed one of these days," Wilson said mildly,
walking into House's bedroom with a glass of water. He was met with
silence, but he expected that. Wilson set the glass on the bedside table,
putting it within House's reach without thinking about it. House had his
eyes closed but Wilson knew he was awake - he only slept when he was doped
up enough and it had been four hours since the last batch of pain
medication. 

It had crossed Wilson's mind a couple of times to `borrow' some of House's
drugs for himself, because he hasn't been able sleep either. His eyes
ached constantly and were so blood-shot he looked constantly like he'd had
a hard night on the booze. "The water's there," Wilson said pointlessly,
looking down at House. 

Somewhere in Florida, Wilson thought, Stacy is at her mother's place and
sobbing her heart out over this man. He had this dreaded feeling that
Stacy was a step away from disappearing altogether. If not now, then a
month or two down the track, when she finally realised House would never
forgive her. Would never suddenly see the light about the choice she made
for him. 

"Go away."

Maybe just to piss House off, Wilson sat down on the side of the bed. "Why
would I do that, when you're such pleasant company?" 

"I can think of a couple of reasons." 

"Right, I should just leave you to feel sorry for yourself in peace. I
forgot."

House finally opened his eyes and glared at Wilson, but the look faded
quickly. "So, did Stacy call you?" House asked bitingly a moment later,
taking Wilson by surprise for more than one reason. So far nothing had
been said about Stacy's sudden visit to her mother and his subsequent
arrival. All Wilson got when he first walked through the door - after
using the spare key Stacy had given him - was a dull, confused look and a
question about pain medication. 

"You know what's funny about a `recommended dose' Jimmy?" House had
slurred. He'd been completely stoned at the time. 

"Why are you asking this now? I've been here for two days already." 

House shifted under the blankets and gave a pained grunt. Wilson barely
registered the sound, he'd become so used to it. "So she called you,
twisted your arm, pulled out all the-." 

"House," Wilson ground out, getting irritated despite his better
judgement. He knew that House had been picking for a fight since he
arrived, and so far he'd foiled all the attempts. Wilson supposed it was
ironic then, that after all the insults he'd put up with it, it's the idea
that he had to have his arm twisted to come and look after House that gets
to him. 

"She came over, said she was going to visit her mother and asked if I
could keep an eye on you. I agreed. That was it." 

House's lips twisted in a parody of a smile, but at the same time he was
studying Wilson's face intently. "I'm sure that wasn't all of it. Where
was all the `he's just being so horrible James'?" House mimicked in
falsetto.

Unfortunately, that was more or less what Stacy had said, but Wilson
wasn't going to verify that. "Don't be an ass." 

Something dark came over House's face before he stared up at the ceiling.
"She's going to leave me." 

Wilson twisted his body and put one knee up on the mattress and frowned.
"Because you won't forgive her." 

"I can't," House growled. 

"You won't," Wilson fired back at him. "And I don't think it's even about
your damn leg. It's about someone daring to think they know better than
you and the complete control you have over your life being taken away.
That is why you're so angry."

House stared at Wilson for a moment before his eyes went cold and hard.
"Get out of here. Right now." 

Wilson almost laughed - though the urge had nothing to do with amusement -
but managed not to. "No." 

For a moment nothing happened. Then House was suddenly struggling to sit
up, going red in the face either with the effort or anger - or both. Taken
by surprise, Wilson didn't have time to brace himself for the powerful
shove House gave him and nearly fell off the bed. "Just...get out!" 

Wilson grabbed House's wrists and forced him back onto the bed, using his
weight more than his strength, so that he ended up half on top of the
other man. House cried out when Wilson jostled his injured leg and tried
to shove him off. Wilson only shifted to avoid putting direct pressure on
House's injured leg and held on tighter. 

"Are you finished?" Wilson asked when House finally seemed to run out of
steam, slumping back onto his pillow. 

"You stupid bastard," House ground out, turning his head to the side. 

"Probably," Wilson agreed. House rolled his head back to meet his eyes and
they stared at each other for an endless minute. Wilson broke the contact
first, letting his head hang down with a weary sigh, his forehead resting
lightly against House's shoulder. After a moment Wilson let House's wrists
go and rolled to lie next to him on his back. 

"Are you going to leave?" 

Wilson blinked and turned to look at House. The question had been asked
gruffly, almost angrily, but the words themselves were vulnerable.
Vulnerable because Wilson knew what House was really asking. 

"No, House," Wilson sighed, looking up at the ceiling. "I'm not going to
leave you." 

"That's not what I asked," House said, but Wilson thought he heard relief
in his voice. 

Wilson remained where he was as House propped himself up onto an elbow to
face the bedside table, taking the pain medication with a gulp of water.
Lying back down, House closed his eyes, and Wilson considered going back
to the living room and the novel he was reading. Before he had the chance
to even sit up, however, House reached over and closed a hand tightly over
Wilson's wrist. 

The gesture made Wilson's chest tighten painfully, though he wouldn't have
been able to put into words why. Breathing out a quiet sigh, Wilson
allowed his own eyes to close. He listened as House's breathing evened out
and felt the hand on his wrist slowly becoming slack. Then, before he'd
even noticed how close he was to doing so, he fell asleep himself. 

 

Stacy did leave, though it took her longer than Wilson expected. She'd
been stubborn to the end, but she was obviously unable to defeat the
stubbornness of one Gregory House. Wilson learnt what had happened from
Stacy first; she rang him the very afternoon she'd walked out, firing out
a tear-choked tirade that Wilson only half understood. 

He didn't know what to feel or what to say. Part of him felt sorry for
her, part of him was angry at her. The fight between the two resulted in
him not saying much at all. Stacy apparently picked up on that, because
she slowly fell silent as well. 

"I'm sorry James," Stacy finally said. 

Wilson didn't know why she was apologising to him. "I..." Wilson trailed
off, rubbing at the back of his neck, searching for something to reply
with. "I understand," he eventually finished with, because that at least
was true. Stacy made vague promises of keeping in touch - none of which
Wilson really believed - before hanging up. 

Wilson didn't think before he picked up his car keys and jacket before
walking downstairs. His wife was in the den and Wilson stood in the
doorway, watching her watching TV. "I'm going to Greg's. Stacy left him."
There was no response or reaction at all. Wilson clenched his jaw before
turning and walking out to his car. 

Twenty minutes later, Wilson let himself into House's apartment, not
knowing what to expect. What he found was House sitting back against the
couch on the living room floor, with a bottle of whiskey in one hand. If
House wasn't yet drunk he looked to be well on his way to it. The TV was
on, but muted, flickering coloured light across the otherwise dark room.
Wilson shrugged off his jacket and walked slowly over to the couch,
draping the jacket on the back of it. Without saying anything, Wilson slid
down onto the floor next to House, sitting close enough that their
shoulders were pressed together. 

House held out the bottle of whiskey without looking at him. Wilson took
it and drank, grimacing as the burning alcohol hit the back of his throat.
He took another mouthful before handing the bottle back to House. Looking
around, Wilson tried to deduce why House was sitting on the floor. He
didn't see any obvious reasons and wondered if maybe House wanted to be
uncomfortable. It wouldn't surprise him. When House hurt, it was if he had
to make it worse before he could get over it. They stared at the TV and
continued to pass the bottle back and forth without saying anything,
getting steadily drunker. Wilson drew up his knees when the room started
to spin a little and was vaguely aware of House leaning more and more
against him. He didn't think much of the extra weight on his shoulder some
time later until he realised House was shaking. Wilson then realised that
the weight was House's head, and that he was sobbing. 

Wilson considered putting an arm around House but immediately dismissed
it. He did, however, turn his head just enough that his cheek brushed the
top of House's head. And if a few of his own tears added to the mix, well,
who was going to notice? Wilson knew that neither of them would ever
mention this once the night ended, if they even remembered it. 

Eventually, House fell asleep - or passed out - and Wilson struggled to
get his limp, gangly body up onto the couch. He found a blanket in the
linen closet with some difficulty - his vision was blurred and he could
barely walk straight - and draped it over House, standing there for a
moment before stumbling down the hallway to use the bathroom. After that
Wilson went into the spare bedroom and collapsed onto the bed - which
smelled like Stacy's perfume. Wilson wondered how long she had used the
spare room for before he fell asleep. 

Wilson didn't end up leaving House's apartment for another three days, and
when he finally did it was to go home to a perfunctory note on the kitchen
table and an empty house. It occurred to him that bad things really did
seem to come in threes: House's infarction, Stacy leaving, and now his
wife leaving. 

Well, we still have each other. Wilson's lips quirked up at that thought
before he screwed up the letter and threw it in the trash.

  
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the
ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of
Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House
(and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property
of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I
am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive
no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement
nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the
show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.