Chapter Text
When Wilson came to, there was something different. For a moment, he felt another wave of panic before he remebered. Hospital. The place he’d been working in for longer than he’d had marriages. Working with House.
As if he’d heard Wilson’s thoughts, there was a sharp prod in his side.
“Wiiiiiiilson. Are you awake yet?”
Had there ever been a friend so quiet, so gentle, so sensitive? Wilson could only hope so but House was what he had.
He supposed that he had better open his eyes before House tried to use speed to wake him up. Again.
The light was painfully bright even though it seemed to be evening outside. Why do hospitals have white walls anyway? You’re just asking kids to draw on them. Wilson would actually prefer that; it’d look less cold.
And there was House, the biggest kid of all, looking back at him with sharp blue eyes and an expression as inscrutable as ever.
“Hi,” Wilson managed to croak, desperately trying not to think about when he’d last had a drink.
“Nice of you to come and join us in the land of the living,” House said while pouring him a plastic container of water and gently steadying it in Wilson’s shaking hands, “how was your holiday?”
Wilson tried not to acknowledge what had happened or just how thirsty he was, even as House poured more water from the jug and did his best nonchalant shrug.
“Eh. So-so. I’ve had better,” Wilson replied before taking a breath. “So, uh . . . what happened with . . . your case?” he finished weakly and swallowed thickly, hoping House wouldn’t read the fear in his words.
“Cured one. Blood cancer. Her better half has been arrested for poisoning her and,” House paused for the shortest of beats and waved his hand, “-you.”
“Right,” Wilson nodded. “Can I go home soon?”
House looked down, “Maybe by the end of the week. By the way, you have 3 fractured ribs, soft tissue damage to your abdomen and bruised kidneys. You also get to take some yummy Ensure for the next few months and about six months off work if you play your cards right, Jimmy.”
Wilson hummed thoughtfully, “I should be so lucky.”
“Please, don’t start singing Kylie Minogue from a hospital bed.”
Wilson smirked, “I can’t make any promises. Do the police want to talk to me?”
“Yep,” House popped the ‘p’ like a 12 year old, “but telling cops to buzz off is something of a passion of mine so they might never actually make it in here.”
Wilson hoped House couldn’t see how relieved that made him feel. He didn’t want to talk about this and he didn’t want to think about it and he didn’t want people asking him questions about it.
The faster they moved on, the faster he could forget.
But for now, he could feel the tiredness washing over him.
House must have noticed because his voice became softer and he leaned in a little, “You can sleep. I’ll still be here later, you should know you can’t get away from me that easily. Besides, even if you’re unconscious you’re still more useful in a differential diagnosis than the kids. And . . . if you don’t wake up until morning, then your mom will be here instead. I do sometimes have to go to the clinic and write my name on stuff before Cuddy grows two giant angry heads. I don’t think all that stress and yelling is good for her. If only she’d try some meditation . . .”
Wilson drifted off, while House’s soft voice filled the room and kept the monsters of the last 10 weeks in their box and if House took his hand after he’d closed his eyes, then Wilson pretended not to notice.
The touch was actually kind of nice.
In the morning, when Wilson opened his eyes his Mom was there crying and his father was holding a cup of coffee with white knuckles.
He’d missed his parents, his dad’s coffee and his mom’s smile and the way they still looked out for him, even in their golden years.
His first prayer on days with elderly cancer patients was always for his parents, though he hadn’t been praying as often as he should have.
Maybe he’d ask his mom to teach him again.
As the day progressed, Wilson was checked on by nurses and the doctor who he knew House had bribed to let him go home at the end of the week. His bedside table began to fill with flowers and cards, some from his patients and all of his ex wives had sent him a card with promises to call and visit. Cameron had sent a card, and had probably tied down Chase and Foreman to make them sign it. His assistant, Erin, was also promising to visit. And his brother and the lady who lived next door to him.
Wilson took a moment to feel very loved and very grateful.
He did not think about Danny or how he could barely stomach the hospital food even though he should be hungry -had been so hungry for so long- and he didn’t think about any day of the last 10 weeks. Not the fear, not the hunger, not the pain, not trying to make peace with God because he was certain he would die, not any of it.
Wilson was fine, he was getting better.
When House came, not thirty minutes after his mom had kissed his forehead to say goodnight, he was grateful for the distraction.
One thing about their friendship was that hospitals weren’t weird. House had been hospitalised and almost hospitalised so many times that even though the roles were reversed, he wasn’t totally lost.
House had a bag of greasy take out and two cups of coffee that were stacked precariously on top of the rapidly disintegrating paper bag.
“Thanks for all the help,” House grumbled, somehow managing to set all the food down safely and without burning either of them.
“I’m in hospital,” Wilson defended himself with a hand over his heart in mock passion, “I’m injured.”
“Let me know when you have an infarction and half the muscles in your thigh removed and then we’ll talk hospital. And your stomach pumped,” House continued, “now take your dentist-killing, cavity-inducing “coffee” and eat America’s finest junk food.”
And Wilson felt so, so loved again.
“Oh, Wilson. Stop. Stop the puppy eyes. We are not going to hug this out. Now take the food so I can give you a heart attack.”
“I’m not crying!”
“You’re one French fry from a weepy Cameron. You actually might want to keep an eye out for her. Much like you, she likes them broken and I can already picture the pair of you proposing to each other dozens of times a day.”
Wilson glared but he wasn’t mad, not even a little bit. Oh, how he’d missed this, how he’d missed House.
He took a fry and a sip of the admittedly overly sweet coffee, especially after 10 weeks with no sugar and hey shouldn’t this taste a hundred times too sweet or had House actually moderated the sugar to account for that . . . Wilson was a little too tired to find out but he was pretty sure that his heart already knew.
They chatted for almost two hours and Wilson managed half the fries and the whole coffee, happy to break the hospital diet and to see his friend, his best friend.
House watched him eat carefully, barely bothering to hide it but again that was what they did. House might have stolen a lot of Wilson’s food but Wilson had never really minded, especially after the early days of Stacey’s disappearance from House’s life when getting House to function was a Herculean task everyday. Wilson had lectured House about eating too many times to really stop House from watching.
House was the exception to a lot of rules. Maybe . . . maybe when the police did come by and Wilson knew it could be tomorrow, that maybe he’d ley House stay and hear it. He didn’t mind House knowing, not once House understood that it wasn’t his fault and that Wilson didn’t blame him.
When he fell asleep that night, after drinking half a hot chocolate that House somehow managed to get at ten o clock at night, he reached for House’s hand, suddenly realising that he hadn’t told House himself.
“House? House,” he whispered with a sudden urgency, ignoring House’s surprise and, dare Wilson say, concern, “it wasn’t your fault. You know that, right? He was unstable . . . I should never have given you that case. I should’ve seen the signs.”
Domestic violence was something he saw in oncology more than his heart could really take and House knew it. No one, no couple and no family deserved to have that much wrong.
It was just wrong.
And House couldn’t blame himself for this because that was wrong too.
House looked very still and pale in the darkened room. He looked at Wilson caringly, avoiding Wilson’s intense gaze.
“Yeah. I know. Go to sleep,” he urged, voice gentle and just a little hoarse. “We can talk tomorrow.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Wilson protested sleepily, “it’s over and it’s not your fault. Don’t lie to me and don’t blame yourself, House. Please.”
House’s eyes seemed to dampen or maybe that was Wilson’s tired brain getting creative with his dreams. This wasn’t all a dream though. He was in hospital, eating junk food and talking to House and he had the IV in his arm to prove it this time. Not like those dreams he’d had . . .
Maybe House could see his mind straying from safety or maybe Wilson had said that aloud but House interrupted with a squeeze of Wilson’s hand, still holding his.
“Okay, It’s okay, It’s not my fault. Go to sleep, Wilson, or I’ll bore you with my encyclopedic knowledge of infectious diseases and nephrology. I’m something of an expert you know . . .” and House talked on and Wilson drifted off, distantly realising that House had comforted him and was sleeping in a chair for him.
“I love you,” he breathed sleepily and soon he was sound to the world.