Summary: He thinks he loves House for the lies he tells him more than anything else.
Author's Notes: Ah well. Not my 'ship, but so be it. Not my best piece of work either, but not my worse by far.
He thinks he loves House for the lies he tells him more than anything else. He loves the lies more than he loves the Vicodin, which cracks House’s soul apart until all the ugliness pours out, like a sticky black wave of sarcasm, trapping everyone in it’s path in his darkness and pain. There has to be some goodness inside the other doctor, although he’s been searching for what feels like forever, and he only ever glimpses it for a moment when he stops looking, when the replies to questions like do you care AT ALL? About ANYTHING? start to hurt too much. The drugs make House a strange, dark person and he honestly doesn’t know whether he knows him any more.
He loves them more than he loves The Leg, the way House seems to think that because he can’t walk properly, it means that he can treat people the way he wants. Using it as an excuse to be nasty, to ignore common human politeness- not that he ever needed one. He hates the way that it gets in the way in bed, never sure whether he’s hurting it or not, always too afraid to ask because of the feral look in House’s eyes when he does.
He loves the lies more than he loves the hell House puts him through, never telling him where he stands, one second ignoring him for no reason, the next second paging him into the clinic for a consult and backing him into the bed with his lips firmly glued to his neck. The games House plays are dangerous, akin to messing about with fire, and he’s always amazed his third-degree burns don’t bleed through his clothes for the world to see what an idiot he is, and how he just lets House do it.
He loves them more than he loves the cane. At first he thought it would be kinky, something that would be fun, but it isn’t. It’s just another barrier that House puts between himself and the rest of the world, and he only ever touches people with it by whacking them cruelly across the shins. The stick isn’t a sex toy, or a weapon- it’s just another part of House, and he would hate it because he hates every part of him, except that for the obvious reasons he can’t.
And the lies are infinitely better than the way House tastes. He tastes of coffee and painkillers (God, he hates the taste of Vicodin by now, he can never get it out of his mouth, like it’s becoming a part of him, like it’s taking him over), but also of bitterness, anger and exhaustion. Sometimes he even tastes like desperation or sour grief, and those are the worst days.
The lies are maybe the only part of House he loves, the words he says late at night, the words he tells to patients to trick them and get them better, so he’s a good doctor for all of about twenty seconds. He used to think that House was nothing but a lie, a brittle shell containing uncontrollable emotions, until he realised that was just a lie he was telling himself. The lies they tell each other and themselves fog up the air between them, and he’s always surprised House can see through them enough to say ‘Hello Wilson’ every morning.