Title: The Truth 1/9
Spoilers: Fic starts at the end of S7E8
Warning: Slash, eventually. Adult themes.
Rating: NC-17 (M)
Word count: 900 approx.
Disclaimer: don't own anything, except my hope.
Summary: Second person, Wilson's POV. Starts when Sam leaves and House refuses to spend time with Wilson because he's expecting Cuddy. We follow Wilson home, and it all goes AU.
Author's note: This started appearing as non beta'ed on fanfiction. Any merit you find in this new version is due to my totally awesome beta reader yarroway. It is now complete and will appear regularly.
You're sitting on the couch of your condo, with your head in your hands. You've cried for... what is it, two hours? more or less without a break. You've cried about the recent breakup, about Amber's death, about all three divorces. And about having to go through this alone. Where alone means, of course, without House. You wonder how on earth you're going to survive this while keeping functional at work.
You're still yourself: you clean and tidy until everything looks ready for a photo shoot. Then you have a shower and you go to bed. After an hour of tossing and turning you come to a decision, and then you finally fall asleep.
"No, I'm meeting Cuddy. Maybe you could bring me a coffee now? If I want to keep her happy I have to get rid of the paperwork backlog."
Neither of you doubts the fact that if he's lunching with Cuddy you shouldn't be there. "Sure."
"What about a short break?" you ask five minutes later, as you put two fragrant coffee cups and a plate with two donuts on the table between you, careful not to stain the manila folders strewn everywhere.
"It's a good idea. I'll go crazy if I don't."
"Funny, that's precisely what I wanted to talk to you about."
"Paperwork?" House's eyebrows have raised half an inch, while he starts eating the second donut.
"No. The fact that something has got to change in my life or I'll go crazy myself."
"Is it really time for New Year's resolutions? And if so, why should I be interested in yours?"
"Because you're involved. Some of it I can do myself: no sex and no booze until my head starts working properly again."
House's snarky expression disappears immediately, and is replaced by evident concern. He silently looks at you, than drops his eyes.
"I need you as my primary physician. I want a psychologist referral. I need therapy."
"Are you sure? You're just getting over being dumped. You would think you'd get used to it, but even if you don't it will soon go away and you'll date someone else."
"That's precisely what I don't want! I screwed up all my relationship so far. Every single one. Fast. I want to stop this. Sex and booze make me do stupid things. The pain is too much. It's not worth it."
House looks at you. His eyes go all over you, obviously noticing the messy hair, tired eyes, unironed shirt, skew tie.
"Ok. I'll write you a referral." He sounds uncertain. "I'm sorry about yesterday evening. Is this why you need a shrink? Because I wasn't there for you?"
"Yes. That is, no. I'm not a boy, I'm over forty. I shouldn't need takeout and booze with you to face my life. You straightened yourself out. I should do the same."
House nods and hands you the scrip. You smile briefly and leave, bringing away the empty cups.
PPTH's excellent psychology services have given you an appointment with Dr. John Lassiter for the next day. He looks about ten years older than you, short, balding, with a salt-and-pepper well-groomed beard and a contagious smile. He doesn't smile while he listens to you, though. He asks many questions. And more questions. He tells you that your idea of celibacy seems very reasonable, and that you shouldn't quit alcohol altogether but limit it: no more than two drinks per day, only beer or wine. He also puts you on a schedule of two appointments per week.
"So how's therapy going?"
"Sorry, I thought you always want to talk about everything. But if you're discussing your sex history of course you wouldn't want to talk about it. Must be boring as hell."
You smile weakly. "You're not so far from the truth, actually. Dr Lassiter said we haven't found the real root of the problem yet. How about you? It seems you and Cuddy are doing very well together. I'm happy for you."
It doesn't sound as convincing as you hoped to, and House frowns a bit.
"Could be worse. I'm even starting to get used to the brat."
"She's a cute girl."
"She still chews on anything small enough to fit in her mouth, and speaks about as well as a demented parrot. Still, I'm getting used to her. And conversely."
"Do you have any time to spend with me over the weekend?"
"I don't think so. We're redecorating Rachel's room, and afterwards we've booked a sitter. For the whole night."
"Good for the two of you. Say hi to Cuddy." You leave, without waiting for a dismissal. House looks after you, his mouth pursed, thinking.
The fourth therapy session lasted three hours. Most of it spent not speaking but crying. Lassiter ferreted the truth out of you. You're in love with House, and have been for a long time. Years not months. For the first time he gives you sleeping pills. They don't work. You cry through most of the night. You're too tired go to work in the morning, and you call in sick.