Archive of Our Own ^beta

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1.

"Leave me alone," House had muttered soon after the infarction; Wilson knew he hated others seeing him in pain, seeing him so vulnerable, just as he also knew it was dangerous to leave House alone in this condition.
"You know I can't leave you like this," Wilson had responded, and therein lied the roots of their unique relationship. They'd known each other prior to the infarction, of course, but only as acquaintances - House had bailed Wilson out of jail, and they'd kept in contact, although only loosely. Now, however, Wilson knew he was all House had; his wife had just left him, and as supportive as Cuddy was, she was too busy to give House what he needed - a bond. Someone he could confide in, and trust to do the right thing when it was needed.
"It hurts," House had breathed, the agony clear as day in his voice, and all Wilson could think of to do was whisper a piteous 'I know', and watch as his soon-to-be best friend writhed in pain.

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2.

"Whuh- Why arrrre you shtill here?" Wilson watched as House slurred, pathetically, surrounded by what seemed to be at least 7 shattered bottles of what used to be whiskey. He shook his head at the mess before him, deciding not to grace House with an answer, as he likely wouldn't remember this in the morning, and instead set to sweeping up the shards of glass, lest House cut himself on one.
"You really should be more careful, y'know," Wilson advised, his voice muffled as if underwater by the alcohol.
"'m guna have one helluva h'ngov'r, huh?" House said, although it seemed that he was concentrating better now that he had someone to focus on. Wilson let out an amused sigh and nodded his agreement, before getting started on sobering House up. They both knew, even with House not being entirely in his right mind, that it was gonna be a long night.

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3.

Wilson sat by House's bed as he groaned, gesturing wildly to dim the lights. It was clear that Cuddy wouldn't let House off for something as slight as a hangover, but Wilson could still try his best to not make it too unpleasant. He owed this to House for acting as his get-out-of-jail-free card.
"God, what are you still doing here, Wilson?" House mumbled, one aching arm coming up to cover his eyes.
"You'll be late for work, if you're not already," He croaked, his throat raw and dry. He hated hangovers - then again, he supposed everyone did, although he couldn't help reprimanding himself for allowing himself to get so carried away with drinking himself into oblivion. His reprimands, however, were cut off by Wilson's voice digging into his skull with a precision sharper than any needle.
"Thanks, Captain Obvious. You come into work late every day, and God knows my reputation is good enough at work to get away with it this one time." He said dryly, before finding House's Hangover-Sunglasses™️ and digging out his noise-canceling headphones.
"Come on, I'll drive you into work."

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4.

This was bad. This was very bad. Wilson felt his muscles lock up as he entered the flat, and in that moment the only thing that registered was House sprawled on the carpet, surrounded by vomit and an empty bottle of vicodin. His mind jumped to the worst conclusion - it was only logical, of course, House had to be dead! Wilson clearly remembered him refilling his Vicodin that very morning, and yet nothing had seemed off about him, there was nothing that could've indicated this...
He was broken out of his train of thought by a ragged breath - weak, but definitely there, and enough to make him spring back into action. He darted toward House, his own pulse racing as he struggled to fish the portable pulse oximeter out of his pocket and clip it onto House's index finger. He inhaled sharply at the glaring 24 on the screen - House was bradychardic but still very much alive. Wilson wasted no time in getting House into the car, and he was pretty sure he broke several driving laws trying to get to the hospital, although he was too high on adrenaline to care. As soon as they got there, Wilson started rapid-firing the facts to all nurses around him, desperate for someone to do something.
"44 year old male, 6"2, with a history of drug use, overdosed on Vicodin!" He managed to pant out, light-headed from hyperventilating. At some point, he must have been sedated, as he awoke next to House, and from then on sat by him as he was pumped with Naloxone, sat by him for hours and hours until he woke up, and when he did wake up, he felt something akin to relief bubbling within him, as well as something that could only be described as love.

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5.

House and Wilson were sat opposite each other in their shared condo, unblinkingly staring at each other as if daring the other to speak first.
"So, uh, House... What did you want to talk to me about?" Wilson started uncomfortably, undoubtedly realising if he didn't say anything, then neither would House. Of course, House startled at this - he had been in deep thought about how to start this conversation, yet now that he had hyped himself up enough to actually do it, he was losing confidence. He took a swig of whiskey for extra support.
"I uh- promise me you won't react badly?" He half-demanded, half-asked, and Wilson was sure he'd never seen House so uncertain about anything before in his life.
"Dead Poet's honour." Wilson said, arm crossed over his chest - he hoped that reminding House of something Wilson had entrusted him with would allow House to entrust Wilson with something in return - and House relaxed infinitesimally, but enough for Wilson to notice. Wilson braced himself for the confession, even though he thought he knew what to expect.
"I- I think I love you!" House blurted out, and Wilson smiled infuriatingly at him, and for a second he thought this was it, the end of his life, and then Wilson was on top of him, kissing and cuddling passionately, and he knew it would all be okay.

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6.

"Please, don't go, I need you, Wilson! I love you, please, no!" House bawled, clinging onto his dying best friend with unthinkable force. He'd known Wilson was dying, they both had, the tumour on the scans was unmistakable and they'd already tried and failed with treatment. They had both known it was coming, and House hadn't thought he had cared this much - he knew he loved Wilson, of course, that much had been established months ago, but God, what he would give to have just another day, one more measly day with his boyfriend...
He was roused from his thoughts by a dejected sigh, yet he thought he detected a hint of contentment within. How could Wilson possibly be glad? He was on his literal death bed, filled with pain but refusing drugs, and he was... happy? As if reading his mind, Wilson reached up toward him, his hand shaking as it laid upon House's own.
"You know, of all places to die... This isn't half bad," He hiccuped, smirking half-heartedly at his own terrible attempt to lighten the situation. However, he quickly became serious, and nudged House's head up to look directly into his eyes, even as he winced at the tears streaming down his boyfriend's face.
"Please, promise me you'll keep living? You'll get through this, I know you will, just promise me, please?" Wilson croaked weakly, but a look of hurt passed over his face as he registered the last words House would ever speak to him: "I can't."

Wilson shuddered as a single tear streaked down his cheek, and he let out his final breath.