Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

House couldn’t sleep.

The room was dark except for the faint amber glow of the streetlamp leaking through the curtains. Beside him, Stacy was curled into his side, her head resting against his shoulder, breathing slow and even. Every now and then, she made a soft snuffling sound, the kind of noise that, on a good night, he might have found endearing.

Tonight, it just grated.

He stared up at the ceiling, counting the faint cracks in the plaster that he’d been meaning to get fixed for months. His mind wouldn’t stop. It never did. It hopped from one thought to the next - the patient who’d nearly died because his interns were idiots, Cuddy breathing down his neck about clinic hours, his father. 

And Stacy.

He glanced down at her, at the way she fit so perfectly against him, soft and warm and familiar. He loved her, in the way House loved anyone. Reluctantly, awkwardly, with far too many defences in the way. She made him happy, mostly. But even now, when everything in his life was stable - good, even - he couldn’t quiet that persistent hum of restlessness under his skin.

He wondered what was wrong with him.

He shifted slightly, careful not to wake her, and stared at the clock on the bedside table. 12:37 a.m.

Brilliant.

He could get up, have a drink, maybe go play the piano. But the thought of disturbing Stacy and having to explain why he was awake again was exhausting in itself. So he lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about anything in particular, which, of course, only made him think more.

Work. Stacy. And, unbidden, Wilson.

He wasn’t even sure how that one had slipped in. Wilson, with his over-earnest eyes and irritating moral compass. Wilson, who somehow managed to make the whole ‘do-gooder’ thing look genuine. Wilson, who’d become, without House’s permission, the closest thing he had to a friend.

House closed his eyes and tried to force the thought away. Thinking about Wilson always led somewhere uncomfortable, to feelings he didn’t want to name, to the way his chest sometimes loosened when Wilson smiled at him, or the way his brain always felt sharper when Wilson was nearby, challenging him, grounding him.

House craved Wilson. He craved his attention and was willing to do just about anything to get it. He knew it was stupid - interrupting him with patients, pranking him at work, calling him when drunk. But so long as Wilson was looking at him, House was content. In the brief time they’d been friends, they had become codependent. Stacy teased them about it often. But to House’s relief, it didn’t seem to bother Wilson. He seemed to need House back. 

House sighed. He felt sick with the desire to be the centre of Wilson’s world. 

He was halfway through convincing himself to stop thinking altogether when a sound cut through the silence.

A knock.

It was faint at first, a single, hesitant rap. Then another, louder. Then another, urgent.

Stacy murmured something sleepily beside him, turning over, her hair brushing against his arm.

House frowned. Who the hell would be at his door at this time of night?

He swung his legs out of bed, wincing as the cool air hit his bare feet. His joints twinged in protest as he stood. 

“Greg?” Stacy mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

He looked back to face her. Her eyes blinked blearily at him and House reached forward and brushed her hair off her face. 

“Go back to sleep,” he muttered. “Probably Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

She made a small noise of amusement, or maybe it was a snore, and settled again.

The knocking came again, harder this time.

House sighed, running a hand over his face as he walked down the hallway. Whoever this was, they’d better have a good reason for waking him up in the middle of the night.

House opened the door to find Wilson leaning heavily against the frame, one hand braced on the wall for balance. He was smiling, far too widely, his tie askew, hair ruffled, eyes glassy. He was drunk. Completely.

“House!” Wilson said brightly, with the enthusiasm of a man who’d just invented happiness.

House blinked at him. “Well, if it isn’t the Ghost of Terrible Life Choices.”

Wilson’s smile faltered for a moment before reforming, loopy and unbothered. “You’re awake,” he said, as if that was a miracle worth celebrating.

“Not by choice,” House muttered, stepping aside and gesturing to him to come in. “Come on then, before you start making friends with the neighbours.”

Wilson stumbled past him into the apartment, narrowly avoiding a collision with the umbrella stand. House closed the door, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

Having Wilson living nearby was brilliant. Convenient too, for both of them, really. After that convention a few years back, they’d gone from acquaintances to something far closer. Not to sound like a teenager scribbling in a diary, but Wilson was his best friend.

So when the opening at Princeton-Plainsboro had come up, of course House had asked him to apply. (Not begged, no matter what Wilson liked to claim. He might have hinted. Strongly. Repeatedly. Until Wilson agreed to meet with Cuddy.)

And, naturally, Wilson had got the job. Of course, he’d packed up his life and his second wife and moved to New Jersey.

It was great.

House loved it.

He loved knowing Wilson was only ten minutes away, loved that he could wander into his office whenever he fancied an argument, or a coffee, or just the reassuring sound of Wilson sighing disapprovingly at him. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but life had felt oddly quieter before Wilson arrived, duller somehow.

Wilson was… different. Special, in a way House didn’t have the language for. Too earnest, too kind, too stupidly moral… and yet, despite all that, he stayed.

And House, for all his cynicism, couldn’t quite imagine not having him there.

He turned to face his drunken friend. “What are you doing here? Forgot where you live again?”

“Bonnie and I had a fight,” Wilson huffed, shrugging off his jacket. “Didn’t want to stay there. Wanted to see you.”

Of course he did. House had half expected it. Every time Wilson and Bonnie had a fight, which was becoming all too often, House inevitably found himself drafted into the role of emotional triage nurse. He told himself he didn’t mind. Hell, he liked it. He liked having Wilson depend on him. He liked having Wilson need him. He liked having Wilson want him. House refused to unpack that.  Wilson’s presence was a fixture now, one House had come to rely on far more than he’d ever admit.

A sleepy voice drifted from down the hall.

“Greg?” Stacy’s silhouette appeared in the doorway, hair tousled, eyes squinting.

House shot her a faintly apologetic look. “Just Wilson. Go back to bed.”

She looked over at Wilson and smiled. “Of course,” she nodded, muttering under her breath, “who else,” before disappearing again.

House barely watched her go, instead he turned back to Wilson. “You really have impeccable timing, you know that?”

Wilson gave a lazy grin. “You love it.”

“I tolerate it,” House corrected.

Wilson didn’t argue. Instead, he stepped closer and, with a drunken sigh, rested his head on House’s shoulder. The move was casual, thoughtless and it undid House completely.

He froze. The smell of Wilson’s aftershave hit him first, clean and warm. His hair brushed against House’s jaw, and that was it - his brain betrayed him, filling with every thought it shouldn’t. He shouldn’t notice how soft Wilson’s hair looked. Or how easily his body fitted against his. Or how the simple weight of him felt dangerously comforting.

“You’re a mess,” House muttered at last, voice quieter than he’d intended.

Wilson chuckled against his shoulder. “You like messes.”

House huffed. “Yeah. Collect them, actually. You’re just the latest addition.”

Wilson gave a faint laugh that faded into a sigh, his head still resting against House. “Just needed somewhere to go,” he murmured, half-asleep already. “Wanted to see you.”

House stared at the top of his head. The ache in his chest wasn’t irritation, though that’s what he told himself. It was something heavier, something he couldn’t afford to name. He wanted to wrap his arms around Wilson. He wanted to pull him close, never let him go. He wanted to press his lips to Wilson’s stupidly soft hair. 

He swallowed, his mind flashing to Stacy who was in bed - their bed. He forced himself to think of her. He loved her, he did. And Wilson… Wilson was his friend. Best friend. He closed his eyes as he collected his thoughts. 

Wilson huffed tiredly. He tilted his head where it rested on House’s shoulder and his lips brushed House’s neck in a breathy exhale and House… House could barely breathe.  

“Come on,” House said softly, disentangling himself. “Let’s not add vomit to my collection of poor life choices.”

He guided Wilson towards the couch, steering him down gently. Wilson blinked up at him with sleepy eyes. His expression was so fond. Even drunk, Wilson’s expression was so full of warmth, and House couldn’t remember anyone ever looking at him with that much affection.

Not his mother, definitely not his father. None of his friends (not that he’d had many). Not even Stacy. 

House sighed. “Stay there.”

He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a glass of water. “Drink this. It’s like whisky, except rubbish.”

Wilson took it, blinking at him blearily. “You’re a good friend, you know.”

House raised an eyebrow. That was not something House had ever been accused of. “You’re drunk.”

“Still true. Best friend I’ve ever had.”  

The words landed somewhere deep, somewhere House didn’t want them to. He shrugged, pretending the warmth in his chest was nothing. “Drink the water, Wilson.”

Wilson obeyed, then looked up at him again. “Can I stay here?”

House hesitated. Stacy was asleep in the next room. Wilson was drunk, vulnerable and too tempting for his own good. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to let him stay, to fall asleep on the couch, to wake up to him in the morning. But he couldn’t. He didn’t trust himself not to want too much.

So he picked up the phone and called for a cab. Wilson gave him a look so pathetic that House nearly caved. But he didn’t. Instead, he sat on the couch beside Wilson, shoulders pressed together, and made him drink more water. 

When the lights from the taxi appeared outside ten minutes later, Wilson groaned. “Already?”

House nodded. “Yeah. Time to go home.”

“I don’t want to go home,” Wilson muttered, voice small. 

He sounded exhausted and House almost felt guilty about sending him home to his angry wife, who would no doubt be even angrier that Wilson was coming home drunk. Especially if she found out Wilson had stopped by to see him. 

“I know,” House said quietly. “But you should.”

He helped him to his feet, steadying him when he wobbled. Wilson looked up, eyes warm and unfocused. “You’ll still be here tomorrow?”

House forced a smirk. “Unfortunately.”

Wilson’s smile lingered for a heartbeat before he let House guide him to the door.

House watched as the cab pulled away, the yellow glow of the streetlamps glinting off the roof. He told himself he was only making sure Wilson got home safe. But deep down, he knew that wasn’t true.

He’d said “Go home,” but what he’d really meant was Stay. 

House sighed wearily and made his way back to the bedroom. He swallowed hard as he lifted the blanket and slid back into bed. The sheets were still warm from where he’d left them. Stacy immediately shifted in her sleep, curling instinctively against his side, her cheek resting over his chest and her hand splaying lightly against his shirt.

“Wilson?” she murmured, voice slurred with drowsiness. The question was soft, half-conscious, but it still hit him like a blow.

House hesitated, staring at the ceiling. The faint smell of whisky still clung to his skin. He could picture Wilson’s face as he’d leaned against him earlier, flushed, smiling, eyes too gentle. For a moment, just one brief, impossible moment, he’d wanted to keep him there.

He forced a breath. “He’s gone home,” he said quietly.

Stacy hummed sleepily and relaxed again, drifting back off.

House lay there in the dark, staring into nothing. He could still feel the weight of Wilson’s head on his shoulder, the warmth of him, the quiet comfort of his presence. The flat felt emptier now that Wilson had gone.

He closed his eyes and tried to push the thought away. The ridiculous urge to get up, call a cab, and go after him.

“Go home,” he’d told him.

But he didn’t remember ever wanting someone to stay quite so much.

Chapter Text

House was in pain.

Not the kind of pain that came and went. The kind that built and burned, deep in the muscle, under the skin, through the bone. The kind that made you want to peel yourself out of your own body just to escape it.

His leg felt like it was being held in fire. Every nerve screamed. His body ached with exhaustion, his mind fogged by weeks of sleepless nights. The world around him was a blur - the ticking of the clock, the low hum of the fridge, the muted city noise bleeding in through the window. All of it was background to the pain.

It was hell. House was in hell. And it felt like it would never end. 

He’d been home from the hospital for a couple of months now. Long enough that the sympathy calls had stopped, long enough that even Stacy’s perfume had faded from the sheets. Long enough that he’d stopped pretending this was something he’d get used to.

He wouldn’t. He would never get used to this pain.

The days were endless and identical. Wake up. Swallow the pills. Grit his teeth. Try to move. Cry - sometimes silently, sometimes not. Pathetic. He was pathetic.

But it hurt. Hell, it hurt.

The Vicodin dulled it only slightly, for a little while. A small mercy that faded before he could convince himself it was working. And when it wore off, when the burn came back, sharper and deeper, he’d be right back where he started. Trembling, sweating, breath ragged.

The cane was a joke. Every step was agony, the effort of simply getting from one room to another leaving him drained. He couldn’t golf. Couldn’t run. Couldn’t even walk from his bedroom to the couch without feeling like his leg would give out. He could barely get himself into the bath, and when he did, it was because he’d decided he’d rather risk slipping and cracking his skull than live in his own filth.

He hated it. Hated all of it.

And he hated Stacy.

The first month, she’d tried to help. Hell, she’d tried - soft voice, gentle hands, cautious optimism. But he’d been cruel. Sharp. Every word that left his mouth was designed to cut, to drive her away before she could pity him.

And it had worked.

She left.

She’d done this to him - cut out part of his leg against his wishes - and then she left him to live with it. He’d told her to go. She actually had.

And even though he was relieved when she finally closed the door behind her as she walked out of his life, he hated her even more for it. 

He hated her for doing this to him. He hated her for leaving him. But he would have hated her even more if she stayed. 

And, mostly, he hated himself. 

House sat hunched on the couch, leg stretched out awkwardly, a sheen of sweat across his forehead. His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth ached. The pain clawed through him like it wanted to devour him whole.

When the door opened, he barely turned his head.

Wilson stepped inside, letting himself in with the spare key. House had given it to him months ago, back when the idea of needing help had still been something abstract and distant.

He’d given him the key so that he could come around whenever. He’d given him the key because this felt like Wilson’s home too. Because he wanted him to be able to come over, anytime. He hadn’t thought that Wilson would need a key for this. 

Wilson hesitated in the doorway, coat still on, a takeaway bag dangling from one hand. His expression softened the moment he saw House, tear tracks drying on his cheeks, trembling hands gripping his thigh.

“House…” Wilson said quietly.

House forced his voice through gritted teeth. “Don’t.”

Wilson sighed and set the bag on the counter, shrugging out of his coat. “When did you last take a Vicodin?”

“Half an hour ago.” His tone was sharp. He clutched his thigh. “It’s not fucking working.”

Wilson moved closer, crouching in front of him so they were eye level. “You look awful.”

“Thanks. That’s what I was going for,” House griped. 

He fought to keep his eyes open, to meet Wilson’s gaze. But he was in so much pain. He hadn’t known he could feel this much agony. He just wanted it to stop. Why wouldn’t it stop?

Wilson ignored the jab, his eyes scanning House’s face, then his leg. “You should’ve called me.”

“Why? So you could come over and nag me?”

“So I could help you.”

“I don’t need help.”

Wilson’s gaze flicked to the half-empty bottle of Vicodin on the coffee table. “You’re shaking.”

“I said I don’t-” House cut himself off with a hiss as a fresh wave of pain shot up his thigh. His hand clamped down on the muscle instinctively, knuckles whitening.

Wilson stood up and disappeared into the kitchen without a word. The sound of running water followed, the clink of glass, the rustle of a paper bag. When he returned, he held out a glass of water and a plate of what House recognised as his favourite dish from the Thai restaurant down the road.

House glared at it. “What am I, five? I don’t need you babying me.”

“Eat something,” Wilson said gently, ignoring his complaints. “You’ll feel worse if you don’t.”

“I already feel worse,” House muttered. 

Wilson didn’t move until House took the meal. Begrudgingly, he did. His hands trembled as he picked up the fork. Each bite was mechanical - chew, swallow, grimace.

Wilson hovered, arms crossed. “You need to take another pill.”

House scoffed. “I’ve taken enough to tranquilise a horse.”

“And it’s still not enough?”

House looked at him sharply, but Wilson’s tone wasn’t judgemental, it was worried. Too worried.

They didn’t talk for a while after that. Wilson sat down beside him, close. They always sat close, shoulders brushing. Wilson picked up the remote and the television flickered on, filling the silence with meaningless background noise. House ate half the meal before dropping the plate onto the table. Wilson sat beside him, eating his own portion of food and House could feel him glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. 

Wilson picked up the mess, tidying quietly, then returned to him. “Come on. Bath or bed?”

House gave him a look. “What are you, my nurse?”

“Someone’s got to stop you from falling over and dying in the tub.”

“Dramatic.”

Wilson smiled faintly. “Accurate.”

In the end, House didn’t fight him. He couldn’t, not really. Wilson helped him up carefully, patiently, his arm firm around House’s waist as they shuffled down the hall. Every step sent a bolt of agony up his leg, but Wilson didn’t rush him.

Once in the bathroom, Wilson helped him strip out his clothes. House didn’t have it in him to feel embarrassed. Wilson had been helping him since the infarction happened. There were no boundaries, not anymore. Not when Wilson had seen him in every state imaginable. Not when, in those first couple of weeks, he’d needed help to get on and off the toilet. Not when he’d refused Stacy’s help, asked for Wilson’s instead because he couldn’t stand the thought of her touching him after what she did. 

When House sank into the bath a few minutes later, steam curling around them, the water eased the pain just enough for him to breathe. Wilson sat on the edge of the tub, sleeves rolled up, idly running a cloth over House’s arm.

It was unnecessary. It was getting into the tub he needed help with. House could wash himself. He wasn’t that helpless. 

But he also didn’t want Wilson to stop. It was intimate in a way that made House’s throat tighten.

“You don’t have to do this,” he muttered.

“I know.”

“Then why are you?”

Wilson looked at him for a long moment. “Because I want to.”

House couldn’t meet his eyes. His chest ached with something that wasn’t pain. “You should go home.”

“I will,” Wilson said softly. “When you’re all right.”

House snorted. “Could be years.”

“Then I’ll stay the night.”

“No.” His voice came out sharper than he meant. So he repeated it, softer, “No.” 

Wilson blinked, startled by the sudden edge in his tone. “House…”

There was silence, broken only by the sloshing of water as he shifted in the bath. 

They didn’t talk. Wilson gently washed House’s hair and for the first time in months, House wanted to weep with relief instead of pain. He let Wilson gently massage the shampoo into his hair, let him tilt his head back to rinse it out. He closed his eyes, soaked it in. He hated admitting it, but having someone look after him - having Wilson look after him - made the pain in his thigh dim slightly. 

Wilson stood, dried his hands, and fetched a towel. 

“Right,” Wilson murmured, crouching beside the tub again. “Let’s get you up.”

He slipped his hands under House’s arms, bracing his weight, and heaved. House gritted his teeth, his breath catching as a white-hot bolt of pain shot through his thigh. The world tilted for a moment. He bit down on the scream that tried to claw its way out of his throat.

“Easy,” Wilson said softly, steadying him. “I’ve got you.”

And House believed him.

Once House was upright, Wilson reached for the towel and wrapped it firmly around his waist. The soft fabric scratched against skin still damp and overheated from the bath. Wilson grabbed a second towel and began to dry him off. Careful, methodical, gentle. His hands brushed across House’s shoulders, down his arms, over his chest. Every touch was professional, but there was a warmth there that made House’s breath hitch.

He stood there silently, allowing it. Allowing him.

Wilson didn’t speak, and House didn’t look at him. There was something too raw in the air, something that felt like it might split him open if he acknowledged it.

When Wilson finally helped him out of the tub, House hissed as his bad leg jarred under the weight. “Sorry,” Wilson murmured automatically, his voice full of genuine regret.

House wanted to snap at him, to make some biting remark about how sorry didn’t fix his leg, but the words died before they reached his tongue. 

He was so tired. 

Wilson helped him dress in clean pyjamas, his fingers brushing over House’s skin with each careful movement. It was maddening, the tenderness of it,  the quiet intimacy. House didn’t think anyone had ever handled him so gently.

Once he was dressed, Wilson slipped an arm around his waist, half-guiding, half-carrying him down the hallway towards the bedroom. Each uneven step sent another jolt of pain up his leg, but Wilson didn’t falter. He just tightened his grip and murmured reassurances under his breath.

When they finally reached the bed, Wilson eased him down carefully, adjusting the blanket until it was pulled up to House’s chin.

“Comfortable?” Wilson asked quietly.

House snorted weakly. “Define comfortable.”

Wilson gave a small smile, the kind that barely curved his lips but softened his whole face. “You’ll live.”

House’s reply caught in his throat. The room was dim, quiet except for the low hum of the heating and the faint rasp of his own breathing. 

Wilson was still where he stood beside the bed, looking at him. Then he gently reached out and brushed the damp hair on House’s forehead. 

House swallowed as he stared up at Wilson and Wilson shamelessly stared back. 

“I’ll be on the couch if you need me,” Wilson said softly, purposefully ignoring how House had told him no earlier, when he offered to stay. 

When Wilson reached for the lamp, House caught his wrist.

Wilson looked down at him. His expression was so soft and House wanted to weep. 

House swallowed. “You can’t fix this,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

“I know.”

“Go home.”

Wilson frowned.

“Bonnie is waiting for you, Wilson. Go home,” he repeated. 

 Wilson hesitated, then gave a small, sad smile. “Goodnight, House.”

When he left, the flat was silent again.

House stared at the ceiling, pain pulsing in steady waves through his leg. But beneath it, something else throbbed. Guilt, maybe, or the hollow echo of Wilson’s absence.

He turned his head towards the empty side of the bed, where Stacy used to lie, where Wilson had just been standing.

He should’ve let him stay.

But he didn’t know how.

House stared up at the ceiling as tears silently trailed down his cheeks.

Chapter Text

House grit his teeth in frustration as he stared at the whiteboard.

The words scrawled across it - rash, fever, hallucinations, organ failure - seemed to mock him. The markers bled slightly against the surface, creating smudged ghosts of previous ideas. He’d written and erased half a dozen possible diagnoses already, but none of them fit.

Foreman had suggested lupus. Chase had gone with some obscure parasitic infection from sub-Saharan Africa. Cameron had floated the idea of an autoimmune disorder.

All wrong.

The team had been running tests for two straight days, and every result that came back was negative. The patient, a thirty-two-year-old man, was an inch from death, and House was running out of time.

He’d barked orders until his throat was raw, mocking, pushing, needling -  the usual routine. But the snark wasn’t landing. Not when he could feel the clock ticking down inside his skull.

He loathed people, that was true, but losing a patient still hit somewhere deep inside him. He hated the feeling of failure more than he hated anyone else.

(“You don’t hate people,” Wilson had told him once. “You care too much. So you push others away so that you don’t have to feel that hurt.” Wilson was, of course, wrong, like always.)

The door opened. Cameron stepped in, holding a file. She looked tired, dark circles forming beneath her eyes. “Another negative,” she said quietly, setting the folder down on the desk.

House didn’t even reach for it. He just let out a heavy sigh and leaned back in his chair. Cameron sat down beside him. 

“Could be viral?” she offered.

“Could be,” House murmured, twirling his cane between his hands, eyes fixed somewhere beyond her. “But that doesn’t account for all the symptoms. Or how the speed of decline.”

Cameron hesitated. “You want us to rerun the toxicology?”

It was pointless, really. But they were out of ideas. He didn’t know what else to try, to suggest. 

House nodded absently. “Try it.”

She took that as dismissal and slipped out, the door closing softly behind her.

Silence filled the room again. Just House, the whiteboard, and the weight of another mystery he couldn’t solve.

He drummed his fingers against the cane, the repetitive motion barely masking the restless energy burning beneath his skin.

His leg throbbed. His head ached. And still, nothing.

Then the door opened again, quietly this time.

“Hey.”

House didn’t look up immediately. He didn’t need to. That voice - low, warm, familiar - could’ve been picked out in a hurricane.

“Wilson,” he muttered, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

He’d barely seen Wilson the past two days, too wrapped up in the case to have the chance. A brief consult here, a short lunch break yesterday. House hadn’t been able to join Wilson for lunch today. The patient had coded and he and his team had been busy trying to understand why. 

House loathed to admit it, but he’d missed him. 

His best friend walked over, holding a packet of crisps and two cans of soda. He set them down on the table beside House without a word.

House glanced up. “You brought snacks. I assume the hospital doesn’t know you’re raiding the vending machines for emotional support.”

Wilson smiled faintly. “You looked like you needed something.”

“I need a diagnosis,” House replied dryly, snatching the crisps anyway. He tore the packet open with his teeth and leaned back in his chair.

He sighed heavily as he munched on the snacks, thinking. Always thinking. 

“Maybe you’ll think better with salt and carbs,” Wilson said, sitting opposite him.

House stretched his legs out lazily and hooked one of Wilson’s feet between his own. Wilson gave a half-hearted tug to free himself, but when House didn’t budge, he retaliated, sliding his other foot forward until he’d trapped one of House’s in return. They ended up with their feet tangled together under the table, an accidental truce neither of them seemed in a hurry to break.

House retorted, “Maybe I’ll choke and die. Then you can have the office.”

“Tempting,” Wilson smiled indulgently, sipping his drink. 

House smirked and popped open the soda. Neither of them moved their feet. 

They sat in silence for a while, the kind of silence that wasn’t uncomfortable. Wilson watched House with quiet patience, used to the way he retreated into his mind when the cases got difficult.

“You’ve been at this for two days straight,” Wilson said eventually. “You’ve slept what? An hour?”

House shrugged. “Sleep’s overrated.”

“So is killing yourself over a case.”

“It’s not about me.”

Wilson gave him a knowing look. “Everything’s about you.”

House smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Jimmy.”

Wilson leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You know, most doctors would take a step back when they hit a wall. Get some perspective.”

“Most doctors are idiots.”

“Right. You’re special.”

House gave him a sidelong glance. “I am. Glad you’ve noticed.”

Wilson smiled, but it was soft, almost sad. “You can’t save everyone, House.”

The words landed heavier than Wilson probably intended.

House knew he couldn’t save everyone. No doctor could. It was one of the first lessons you learned in medicine - people die. Sometimes it’s quick, sometimes it’s slow, but it always happens. The human body gives up, one way or another. And yet, every time it did, every time House lost a patient, that rational acceptance vanished. Logic meant nothing when failure stared him in the face.

Because it never felt like a medical failure, it felt personal.

The echo of his father’s voice always found a way to creep in, no matter how many years had passed. You should’ve tried harder. You should’ve done better. You always stop halfway. The same cold, clipped tone that had followed him through childhood, through university, through every supposed achievement.

Whenever a patient died, he heard that voice again. Not as a memory, but as a living thing. Mocking him. Taunting him. Whispering that he wasn’t good enough. That no matter how many people he saved, it would never make up for the ones he didn’t.

House clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the cane resting against his leg. His father had believed in obedience, not brilliance, in respect, not questions. And House had built an entire career out of defiance, out of proving the man wrong. But every so often, in moments like this, when the answers didn’t come and the silence pressed too heavily around him, he wondered if maybe his father had won after all.

Wilson didn’t know any of that, of course. He just saw a man too stubborn to admit he was hurting. And House, well, House wasn’t about to explain. 

House stared down at the crisps, then at the whiteboard again. “I know,” he said quietly. “But I can try.”

Wilson didn’t reply, he didn’t need to. He just reached out, resting a hand briefly on House’s arm. 

“Want me to stay? I can help. Let some of your team take a break.”

House looked over at his best friend. He was so sincere, looking at him with those ridiculous puppy dog eyes and hair. He was beautiful, in a way that House rarely allowed himself to acknowledge. But, hell, was he tired. And all he wanted in that moment was to tug Wilson close, to be held by him. To be loved by him. 

He shook his head. “Don’t want to upset the Third Mrs Wilson.”

Wilson sighed and ran a hand over his face. “She’s staying with her sister, so she won’t even notice.”

House looked over at him sharply. “An impending divorce?”

He tried not to feel too gleeful about that. It’s not like being single made a big difference, really. Married or not, House received far more attention from Wilson than his wives could ever hope for. 

Wilson met his gaze. “Not yet.”  He smacked his lips together and nodded at the files strewn across the whiteboard. “So. Do you want me stay?”

House didn’t answer. Not directly, anyway. Admitting he wanted Wilson to stay was far too honest, far too intimate for the late hour and the soft hum of fluorescent lights. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Do you remember that monster truck rally we went to?” he asked suddenly.

Wilson blinked. The shift in topic threw him. Then, as realisation dawned, his face flushed, a deep crimson that spread all the way to his ears. “You mean the one where you-”

“Got us kicked out?” House interrupted, grinning. “Yes. Remember? A moment of pure, unadulterated genius.”

Wilson groaned and rubbed at his forehead. “You started a fight with a ten-year-old.”

“He insulted my truck,” House protested. “You can’t just let that slide. It’s a matter of principle.”

“You called him ‘an illiterate gremlin with the hand-eye coordination of a lobster’,” Wilson said flatly.

House shrugged. “I was being generous. He was eating glue.”

Wilson shook his head, but the fondness in his expression betrayed him. His shoulders relaxed, the tension that had lingered between them all evening finally ebbing away.

“You’re impossible,” he said softly, a smile tugging at his lips.

House tilted his head, studying him. There were dark circles under Wilson’s eyes, his tie was slightly askew, and his hair looked like he’d been running his fingers through it for hours. He looked tired. He looked human. He looked like home.

House’s smirk softened. “You like impossible. Keeps you entertained.”

Wilson huffed out a quiet laugh. “Maybe I do.”

For a long moment, they didn’t speak. The only sounds were the ticking of the clock and the faint hum of a vending machine somewhere down the corridor. The hospital at night was a strange place. All harsh lights and sterile air, but right then it felt almost… peaceful.

House finished the crisps, scrunched up the empty packet and lobbed it towards the bin. It missed by a mile.

Wilson chuckled, the sound soft and familiar, his foot pressing a little more firmly against House’s under the table where they were still tangled together.

House glanced up just as Wilson pulled a lollipop from his pocket and held it out across the desk. Their fingers brushed as House took it, barely a touch, but the faint spark that shot up his arm was enough to make him look away and tell himself it was nothing.

“Thanks,” House muttered, voice low.

“Don’t mention it,” Wilson said. He met House’s eyes again, and something unspoken passed between them. A familiarity, an understanding born of years of knowing each other better than anyone else ever could.

It would have been so easy for House to say stay.

But that wasn’t who he was. 

House sighed and looked back up at the whiteboard, the symptoms taunting him. “Go home, Wilson.”

Wilson nodded slowly. He unlinked their legs and stood up. Hesitating, he rested a hand on House’s shoulder and squeezed softly. “I’ll let you get back to it, then” he said gently. “But eat something that isn’t forty per cent air and salt, yeah?”

House waved him off. “Go home, Wilson,” he repeated. 

“I’ll take that as a thank you,” Wilson replied, smiling as he headed for the door.

House watched him leave, then turned back to the whiteboard. His leg ached, his head was pounding, and he was running on caffeine and spite. But as he stared at the list of symptoms again, he found his mind ticking over faster.

“Rash, fever, hallucinations,” he muttered to himself. “Rash, fever, hallucinations…”

Then, suddenly, it clicked.

He snatched up his marker and scribbled something new across the board - an idea forming in the space Wilson’s calm had left behind.

“Of course,” House whispered, eyes lighting up. “Gotcha.”