Title Of Small Spaces and Big Sticks
Prompt 67. House and Wilson get trapped in an elevator during a snow storm.
Warnings Tame. Just talk.
Disclaimer They're not mine, never were, never will be.
EDIT: Thanks, wanderingwidget for the very helpful beta job! You are the best!



“Tell me again why you’re here?” Wilson stabbed the button for the elevator with one finger and looked up at the arrows above the door. House followed his eyes, blinked at the lights, and shrugged.

“You asked me to come.”

“Well, yeah, but I didn’t expect you to actually do it.”

House tilted his head at that, and studied the spot where the rubber tip of his cane rested on the grey terrazzo of the lobby floor. “It’s for your own protection,” he advised. “I’m here to guide you through the maze of post-separation conference frenzy.”

“You just want me as miserable as you are.”

House shook his head as the doors opened and they stepped into the metal box. “That’s right. It’s all about me.”

“Usually.” Wilson muttered as the elevator bore them up to their floor. The bell dinged and the door opened. “What’s the room number again?”

House took the key card from his pocket and looked at the gold printed number. “515.” He glanced at the nearest door. “That’s the other end of the building.”

“I’m sorry. Should I go back down and get the porter with his little trolley to wheel you down there?” House made a face and stumped off down the hall with an exaggerated limp.

They found the room at the far end of the hallway, and House slipped the key card in the slot. As soon as the door snicked open, he went in. It took Wilson moment to figure out what the tiny smirk on his face was about. The room looked comfortable enough and the one queen sized bed against the wall didn’t register right away. When it did, Wilson sighed. “You switched my reservation.”

“This is cozier.”

“I’ll call down and see if they have something else. Closer to the elevators, maybe.”

House tossed his bag on the bed and jumped up to land in the middle of it facing Wilson. “Nah. You can sleep on the couch.”

Wilson glanced over at the two-seater on the other wall and made a face. He picked up the phone and dialed the front desk. After ten frustrating minutes and no little bit of throwing the considerable weight of his name around, he hung up with a disgusted grunt and flopped back across the rose and powder blue comforter.

“They’ve got nothing until Sunday.”

“It’s a medical conference. What did you expect?”

“A cot, maybe?” He sat up and eyed the couch again and began to feel the crick in his neck just at the thought of it. Maybe if he were drunk enough, he wouldn’t feel the pain until morning and his hangover would overshadow the fact that he couldn’t move his head. “I’m going down to the bar.” It was a good plan, and there was no time like the present to put it into action.

“What about,” House looked at the thick program in his hand. “Bladder Cancer and Working with an Urologist.” House looked up at him. He had moved to the chair near the window. “That sounds interesting.” Wilson was turning up the sleeves of his shirt, and stopped to peer at House. He was just a silhouette, his head haloed in the light coming in the window. It was too perfect.

“The presenter someone you want to humiliate? Your thesis director, maybe?”

“Him? Oh, no. I tanked his career a decade ago.” House pushed himself out of the chair. “So you’re not going to the presentations then.”

“As you’ve never actually been to one of these things, I guess you wouldn’t know how it works. All the interesting stuff goes on in the bar.”

“I know that.” House tilted his head slightly. “Should I bring the fancy cane?”

“Do you want people to think you’re my Sugar Daddy?”

“Depends. Will it get me laid?” Wilson snorted in House’s puppy-eyed face and finished rolling his sleeves up as he crossed the room to the door. “I need a drink. Or four.”

It was several drinks later and almost dark out when they judiciously decided to call an early end to the evening.

“It’s snowing.” House pointed out the glass doors to the street as they passed through the lobby. “A lot.”

“It’s Canada. It snows here.”

“In November?”

Wilson shrugged, absently playing with his keys, trying to find the one that would let them into the room. It took him a few minutes, standing outside the elevator doors, to realize he wasn’t going to find it there. He was apparently more drunk than he’d originally thought. That was good. The thought of the too short couch was still far too vivid. Maybe there was a mini bar in the room he hadn’t noticed.

Looking over at House, absently flipping the room key over and over in his hand, Wilson frowned. “How come you’re not drunk?”

House leaned towards Wilson slightly, his weight on the thin cane. “Drugs and alcohol don’t mix, Dr. Wilson. Didn’t you get the memo?”

Wilson felt his eyes narrow. “When has that ever stopped you?” House only smiled a smile that was way too sinister to be comforting and tilted his head towards the opening elevator.

“Get in.”

Obediently, Wilson stepped over the threshold and pretended he didn’t shiver at the sight of the thick layer of snow disappearing behind the polished brass doors as they slid closed

“You have a plan,” he accused. House made an innocent face. “You never do anything without a plan.” After House still said nothing, Wilson frowned. “You got me drunk on pur-” There was a jolt, and he staggered against House and the wall of the elevator, and probably would have fallen if House’s hand didn’t grip his elbow and his shoulder wasn’t pressed against his chest just so. “pose.” Wilson finished, almost in a whisper because House’s face was right there, much too close to his own. Carefully, he righted himself and looked around even up to the ceiling as though the mirrors there would tell him something. “We’ve stopped.”

“Yeah.” House studied the buttons but didn’t touch any of them.

“The doors aren't opening.”

“Nope.” The word was said with a slight popping noise that made Wilson finally look carefully at the other doctor. He wished he was less tipsy.

“You plan that too?”

House made a face at the buttons. “Yeah. I’m that good.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.” Wilson reached past House to press the door open button, but House gripped his wrist. “Ow!” He twisted free. “What?” House was still looking at the buttons, a deep frown on his face now. “Oh.” Wilson couldn’t help but smile. “That’s right. I forgot.”

House shuffled around until his back was against the mirrored wall, and he could tip his head against the glass. His eyes drifted closed. “You think it’s funny?”

Wilson shrugged. “I think it’s slightly amusing, yes. The Great Gregory House has a pedestrian fear of enclosed spaces.”

“It isn’t a fear, I just don’t like them.” There was a loud buzz just as he stopped speaking, and his back pressed flat against the wall, his eyes snapped open, and the fingers on his cane went white and bloodless. Before Wilson could move, though, he snatched the offending emergency phone from the hook. “Well?” He snapped into the receiver. “I know it’s stuck, you moron, I’m in it. Unstick it.” There was a pause, and Wilson was sure his face paled slightly. “A few hours?” Another pause followed by “I thought you Eskimo people were used to snow. Just tell him strap on his skis and stop being such a baby.”

Wilson groaned and carefully pried the phone out of House’s hand. “Give me that. Hello?” There was incoherent babbling on the other end, and he nodded. “Yes, yes. I know.” He glanced a House. “He’s a jerk.” House made a face worthy of an eight-year-old. Wilson ignored it.

“We are doing the best we can, Sir,” the voice had regained some composure, “but the technician is stuck in traffic. The snow has everything bogged down. Trust me, this is priority. We’ll get you out of there as soon as we can.” Wilson wondered if the man on the other end of the phone was worried about him being trapped in here with House and his temper, or if the overly concerned tone of voice was standard.

“I understand. You can’t help the weather. It’s fine.” He looked over at House, leaning on the wall again, tapping his cane rhythmically on the floor and clicking his teeth together. “Just do your best. We’ll be fine.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Yeah.” Wilson pressed his lips together as he nodded. “You’re welcome.” Gently, he placed the phone back on its cradle.

“Even he thanks you,” House grumbled. “You’re probably the nicest guy he’s ever had stuck in his elevator.”

“Yes, well, I’m stuck in here with you, so the universe has a way of balancing things out.”

“If that were true, you’d be a luscious blond with big knockers.” Wilson snickered, but refrained from pointing out that he knew that was not really what his friend wanted, however much he sang Carmen Electra’s praises.

“You should sit. We’re going to be here a while.”

“Yeah.” Before he moved, though, House reached into his pocket for his pills.

They might have been sitting quietly for almost an hour, or it might have been ten minutes. Wilson didn’t want to look at his watch because it might set House off and at the moment he seemed calm enough. He wasn’t hyperventilating, he wasn’t frothing at the mouth or spitting bullets in Wilson’s direction, and that was the way the oncologist would have liked to keep things. Of course, House being House, it was only a matter of time.

“So why did you come to this thing?” House asked, lifting his head off the wall where it had been leaning to look across at Wilson. “To get laid?”

“Bit of a commute for that.”

“Well, you’re not interested in any of the lectures.”

“And you know this because?” he prompted.

“Because you haven’t circled any of them in your little program. You haven’t mentioned any of the key note speakers. In fact,” House leaned further from the wall. “If I didn’t know better, I’d almost have to think you were trying to lure me away from the hospital.”

Or get away from you, Wilson thought, but he knew better than to say it out loud. He knew he would have the fact that he’d invited House along rubbed in his face. He wasn’t interested in exploring the deeper meaning behind that momentary lapse of reason.

“But you see, I do know better.”

“What?”

“You wanted to come alone. You only asked me because you thought I’d say no.”

Wilson knew he was an easy read. First his eyes twitched and narrowed slightly, then his lips pressed together, and he ended by nodding slightly. There was no use denying the fact. “So you knew I wanted to come alone, and you came anyway. That is so pathological.” He paused in case House wanted to say anything, but there was no response. He considered for a moment, trying to remember the last time they had been this close to the thing that always hovered just under the surface of their friendship. “I know why you came.” He said at last. House’s only response was to reach for the vicodin again. Wilson stopped him with a hand over his. “You just took one.”

“If you’re going to get all touchy feely, I need another.” House pulled his hands free but he put the bottle back in his pocket unopened.

“I’m not the one who wants to get touchy feely, House.” He wasn’t sure what kind of response he expected. He watched the expressive face shift through too many pieces of the puzzle for him to follow, trying to fit the pieces in where they didn’t want to go.

“I get that, Jimmy. All the wives,” he waved a hand in the air. “The girlfriends, I get that. But if we are going to talk pathologies, let’s talk about pathological denial.”

“Let’s not.” Wilson used the leverage of anger to catapult himself to his feet. Sitting shoulder to shoulder on the elevator floor was suddenly too close. As soon as he was up, and away from the overwhelming House-ness of the other man, though, the feeling dissipated. It always did. He looked back, but House wasn’t looking at him. He was holding his cane by the rubber-tipped end and flipping the hook first left, then right, back again, over and over and watching it thump against the carpeted floor. It was slightly mesmerizing. When he spoke, he didn’t miss a beat.

“Why didn’t you cheat on Julie?” Still he didn’t look up, and Wilson answered without thinking.

“Because you-” House’s head snapped up, and Wilson was trapped in the clicking and whirring of his gears and couldn’t look away.

House inclined his head slightly, his gaze asking the question “because I what?” Wilson swallowed.

“You,” He sighed. He was just drunk enough to know he was off his game, just drunk enough to feel himself spinning in that almost out-of-control way that he did around House even when he was sober. He was just drunk enough to see it clearly, and not quite drunk enough to do anything about it. And while he dithered and sweated and agonized over wanting things he didn’t understand, House struggled to his feet and stumped the few paces to close the distance between them.

“I never had you somewhere you couldn’t get away before.”

“House.” That definitely came out too breathy and gruff, and even if he wanted to sound normal, he doubted he could at this point. He couldn’t get away. He was, literally, backed into a corner. “This isn’t another one of those experiments is it? Like the money thing? Because even if I did draw a line, I have a feeling you’d just cross it.”

“I think I am across, and you haven’t drawn a new one.”

“I seem to have lost my big stick for drawing lines in the sand.”

House smiled, and likely would have had something to say about the impermanence of lines drawn in the sand if the elevator hadn’t jerked into motion at that moment. Instead, he grunted, and this time, Wilson caught him as he stumbled, felt the rough stubble of his cheek drag across his own, heard the hard clank of House’s cane on the wall behind him, grimaced under the sharp bruising of House’s fingers on his arm just above his elbow. For that one instant, their bodies pressed together, then House was righting himself, the door was sliding open, and Wilson found himself leaning on the mirrors at the side of the elevator watching House’s back as he swayed gracefully out of the elevator.

Wilson would have stayed there and let the doors close behind the other man but House stopped, turned, and held the door open with his cane.

“You coming?” his eyes twinkled, and Wilson felt the beginnings of a grin. “I think I know where to find your stick.”