thedreadpiratelight

[thedreadpiratelight]

Let Down.

james wilson x gregory house

angst.

1.7k words.

loosely based on: this song

A/N. hey there! this'll be my first time posting something i've written on here, and i am very happy to say that it is, in fact, gay house fanfiction based on a radiohead song.

isn't tumblr a beautiful place?

enjoy! ^-^

“What did you expect?”

Wilson paused for a moment, opening his mouth to respond, then abruptly closed it.

He stood in front of the desk in House’s office, irritated after a long day of House being difficult. A long week. A long month. A long year. A long time. And yet, House lounges in his chair.

“Three failed marriages, all of your relationships crash and burn, and you thought you could find something different in me of all people?” House says absentmindedly, tossing his ball in the air and catching it with ease. That damn ball.

Wilson scoffs, “You’re acting like you’ve had no part in this. It takes two to tango, House.”

“Yeah, and it takes one to realize that that’s a stupid analogy. Why tango? Is there no other mainstream two-person dance that people want to equate themselves to?” House quickly retorts.

“You know what I mean,” Wilson says, loudly exhaling. “You’re behaving like this is just some unrequited . . .” he stammers. “Crush,” he finally says.

House chuckles. “Crush?” He repeats.”Are we in middle school? Do you want me to pick you a dandelion and give you a kiss on the cheek?” He continues to throw his ball.

“No! But you can act like you give a damn about me, or that you want this to go somewhere.”

“I do,” House says instantly.

“You want this to go somewhere? Then act li–”

“No, not that. I do give a damn about you, though,” He mindlessly focuses on the ball.

Wilson laughs, annoyed. “And that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me in . . . God, I don’t even know how long,” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m a grown man. And this is what I’m doing with my life. I’m settling for ‘I do give a damn about you.”

“Well, it doesn’t sound like you’re settling.”

“Yeah, well, I have been. For years. It’s been this . . . it’s been this . . . this back and forth. This constant wondering what we are, what you want from me. You gave me the dandelion, and I’ve been picking those petals—he loves me, he loves me not—for years, House. It feels like a lifetime just sitting there. Waiting, ruminating.”

He sounds out of breath.

“Those weren’t really the ones I was thinking of,” House responds.

“What?” Wilson exclaims, puzzled and annoyed.

“When I said ‘dandelion’, I was picturing the ones that blew away”.

Wilson stares at him for a moment, mouth agape. “I’m being honest with you right now. I’m telling you what you do to me. And you’re talking about flowers. I’m laying it all out for you to hear and you won’t–”

House continues tossing the ball.

“Look at me!” Wilson effectively dives behind the desk, catching the ball before House can. The tail end of his white coat flowed downward; House could feel the brisk breeze from the abrupt jump Wilson made. Wilson’s hair was still unkempt from when he ran his hand through it, and his eyes locked on the other’s.

“Interference,” House grumbled.

Wilson’s brows furrowed out of desperation. House felt a twinge of guilt. Wilson could never look bad, but he looked rough. And House knew whose fault that was. He knew what he was doing to him.

He saw the way Wilson looked at him, even out of the corner of his eye while he’d converse with someone else. Or just now, when Wilson was angrily pouring his heart out to him.

The poor guy still had hope.

It wasn’t like it was unrequited. That just wasn’t physically possible. 

The day House stopped loving Wilson with the entirety of his being would be the day he died.

It was not something any painkiller could numb. Something any gunshot wound could rip a hole through. It was sitting there, deep in his stomach, eating away at him.

It pissed him off. Wilson’s annoying habits pissed him off. The excessive nagging pissed him off. The way he walked. The way he talked. The way he smiled. The way he laughed. The way he kissed. It all pissed him off.

How long had it been since they’d kissed? Their faces were awfully close. He wouldn’t go for it now, obviously, but he sure was tempted.

“Listen,” He finally said. “I’m sorry,” he breathed out.

Wilson said nothing.

“I’m sorry I’m not up to your expectations,” he expanded.

Wilson started, “That’s not–”

“Let me finish,” House holds up a hand.

Wilson nods once, still in the same spot. Still slightly hunched down, gripping the ball for dear life, eyes unmoving.

“You have an expectation,” House sits up, leaning a little closer to Wilson. “You want something from me. And I can’t give it to you.”

“But why?” Wilson asks.

House felt a pain in his chest. He was reminded of all of the times he nearly purposefully crashed his motorcycle—just to make it all go away. Did it really have to be like that?

He was face-to-face with the one person who gave him a reason to live. And that made him want to die.

He didn’t deserve to be in the room Wilson lit up whenever he walked in. 

Scratch that. 

Maybe it wasn’t the room. Maybe it was just House.

“Because I said so,” House shrugs. Great argument.

Wilson didn’t move a muscle. “What do you mean, ‘Because I said so?’ Why can’t you say so? Why can’t you let yourself be happy, House?” He looks as though he is sifting through files in his head. Always searching for solutions, this one.

House laughs, almost bitterly, “You don’t want this”.

“And why can’t that be for me to decide? Why can’t I decide if I want something?”

House shakes his head. “Because I’m going to put you through hell. You’ll be put through hell and you won’t give up,” He’s getting frustrated. 

“People work through these things, House! People have problems!” Wilson says hopelessly. He feels pathetic. He doesn’t give a shit. He needs it. “You don’t have to run from everything,” he sighs. “Well, it’d be a little hard for you to,” he stifles a grin as he gestures to the cane leaning against the adjacent wall.

House is slightly amused at Wilson’s ability to find humor in the situation, but this is quickly interrupted by the fact that he realizes that it’s likely due to a need to appeal to him. The guilt continues to grow. And yet he chuckles softly. 

Wilson looks down and also chuckles to himself, rather awkwardly. House mirrors the action. 

He’s nervous. Vulnerable. 

He looks up first, giving him the ability to study Wilson’s face from this angle. The light head bob from the forced laugh, the eyelashes fluttering downward, and that hesitance to look back up. He loved Wilson’s face. His front profile, side profile, every profile. Every angle. Every age.

Wilson raised his head up, immediately locking eyes with House again. They’re both silent for a minute. Both briefly sharing the same thoughts.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, House thought. 

He pictured it. He pictured it. A life with Wilson. Waking up every day to a sleepy “Good morning,” from someone who was in it for the long haul. 

He thought again about how Wilson looked at him, face-to-face this time. 

It was so distracting. He could be delivering a bullshit, spiteful monologue about something useless and he could tell that Wilson was studying his face, taking him all in. It disgusted him. He didn’t want to be perceived. But it disgusted him even more that he did the same. 

They were both doing it right now.

Somehow, their faces were already moving closer to each other. They knew the drill.

“No,” House stood up, snapping out of it. His head was spinning. He wanted to vomit. He hoped to vomit. Anything that would drive Wilson away from him.

“Please,” Wilson said softly. 

Don’t do that. House silently pleaded. You’re not like that.

He wasn’t like that. House broke him.

House was using so much brain power to figure out how to end this interaction as possible that it started to make him dizzy. Or was it the standing up too fast? It didn’t matter. He needed to shut it down. He grabbed his cane and began the motions of pacing, or his equivalent to it.

He would wear Wilson down over the years, he knew that. No amount of warmth and forgiveness would ever rid him of the guilt he would feel for that. 

“I don’t want you”.

Bullshit.

House could physically hear Wilson’s breath hitch in his throat. He heard him swallow.

“I see,” Wilson said through a long, drawn-out sigh.

House couldn’t bring himself to look at him. His body was partially faced away, towards the door, and his eyes were on the ground. The room was silent for a moment. It was killing him. He turned back around. They stood in front of each other, unsure of what to do next. 

House shrugged again, which felt nearly impossible, considering how heavy his shoulders felt. His entire body, in fact. He felt as though all of his joints could come loose and he’d fall to the ground in a heap of dread. 

Wilson appeared to be finding the words to say, seemingly forgetting how to form a sentence. He begins through a cracked voice, “You’re b–”

“Being an ass? Yeah, I know,” House interrupts guiltily.

“You’re breaking my heart”.

House suddenly wishes he never turned back around to look at him. He couldn’t quite put his finger on the precise expression Wilson was making, the tone of voice he said that line in. 

That. Fucking. Line.

It destroyed him. He knew that he’d be sitting with his head in his hands later, replaying it in his mind. 

There was nowhere else to go from there. Except away. 

House quickly averts his gaze and turns around to leave. The room is dead silent, save for the clacking of his cane and the closing of the door as he leaves a crushed Wilson behind.

Crushed

Like

A

Bug

In

The

Ground. 

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