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Wilson hadn’t been at work for three days, and House was worried.
Wilson didn’t miss work. It wasn’t something he did. Wilson was the one who dragged House into work when he slept in too late or conveniently “forgot” that it was no longer the weekend. Him not being here was something out of the ordinary. An anomaly, if you will.
And House hated anomalies.
He slammed Cuddy’s office door open with his cane, fixing her with a look. The ever-suffering Dean of Medicine sighed as she looked up from her laptop at him.
“What crazy procedure do you want me to approve?” she asked tiredly.
“No procedure,” House said as he came properly into the room, standing in front of her desk. He braced both hands on the top of his cane. “Where’s Wilson?”
”Why should I know?” Cuddy said. She rolled her eyes and looked back down at her laptop.
“You’re the Dean of Medicine, he’s your head of oncology. And you get mad at me when I don’t come in.”
“Yes, but Wilson, unlike you, is actually reliable,” Cuddy said as she gave him a small glare. Then her face softened a little. “He called in sick three days ago, said he’d be back next week.”
“Sick how?” House asked. She shrugged.
“He didn’t say.”
”And you didn’t ask?”
“Once again, unlike you I trust Wilson not to lie to me.”
House rolled his eyes.
“Fine, be useless,” he sneered. “But he’s not answering my calls.”
“I don’t blame him,” Cuddy replied with a glare. House glowered at her for a moment before turning and walking out. “And you still owe me clinic hours this week!” she called after him.
As always he ignored her, and before long she let the issue slip her mind.
House, however, wasn’t satisfied. Far from it, in fact. He’d seen Wilson on Monday, the last day he’d been in work, and he’d looked fine. Whenever Wilson was sick he wouldn’t actually go off work until the second day of being sick, because he was a stubborn asshole as House often put it when he found himself trying to get Wilson’s fever down around lunchtime. No, Wilson wasn’t sick, because House would know.
There was currently a lull in cases, and so he knew he could get away with slipping out for an hour or so. It couldn’t hurt, right? If Wilson was sick then no harm done and House could come back to the hospital with his tail between his legs and a re-evaluation of his observation skills. If he wasn’t, well...
He didn’t even bother to grab his bag before heading down to his car. Cameron tried to grab him as he slipped past the ER, but he expertly dodged her and managed to get out of the hospital without running into anyone else. He couldn’t help but feel his anxiety rise as he started his motorcycle up, revving her a little to warm her up. Anomalies with Wilson were always bad. They meant cheating or lying or, even worse, that he’d met the next prospective Mrs Wilson and was trying to hide her from him. That would never do. How could House ruin their wedding if he didn’t know the woman’s every weakness?
Perhaps that was why Wilson always kept them from him for so long.
No, it couldn’t be a new fling: Wilson would never have take a week off work for a fling. That wasn’t his style. Did that mean something bad? House wasn’t sure.
The wind was cold whipping against his skin as he pulled out of the hospital car park. The drive to Wilson’s hotel wasn’t too far, ten minutes or so if the traffic was good. He still had a spare key to the room from when he’d stolen the oncologist’s keychain and made copies of every single key he had on there (well, the keys he didn’t already have copies of). He’d better not have changed rooms. Or hotels. He’d kill him if he had.
House was tense the whole ride to the hotel. It was very rare for House and Wilson to spend their evenings together at the hotel: Wilson always complained it was embarrassing enough that he was living in a hotel in the first place, and that he didn’t want anyone thinking he was hiring hookers. When House had said “if one of us is the hooker, it’s so you” he had blanched and insisted on spending the evening (and inevitably the night on the couch when they both got a little too tipsy) at House’s apartment. From what he remembered, the hotel was fine. Just... fine. It was a hotel room. There wasn’t really much to write home about.
He parked up quickly when he reached the hotel. For a moment he considered going to the front desk and asking them if they’d seen Wilson, but he dismissed that in favour of his usual method: walking in like he owned the place and hoping nobody stopped him. They didn’t, of course, with every member of staff ignoring him as he limped through the lobby to the elevator, keys clutched between his fingers.
He couldn’t help but tap his foot as the elevator rose upwards. Was Wilson okay? Was he going to walk in to find his best friend’s naked body brutally murdered on the bed with a note from an angry hooker next to him? House was pretty sure he was getting carried away here, but a million and one things were running through his mind. Unconsciousness, coma, death? Maybe he really had been sick... sick and murdered? He wasn’t sure.
The door to Wilson’s hotel room was unassuming. There was no blood seeping out onto the patchy grey carpet, so that was a good sign. House raised his fist to knock before remembering that that wasn’t his style and trying the door.
Unusually it was unlocked. That heightened House’s suspicions— and his concerns— immediately. Wilson locked all doors except for his office one. It was one of his... things, hence him making copies of all the keys. He stared at the door handle for a moment, brow furrowing. He looked around the corridor for a moment. Empty, as he expected. Shaking his head, he opened the door and slipped into the room.
The first thing he noticed was the smell. It... wasn’t great. House scrunched his nose a little as he took a sweeping observation of the room. The blinds were closed, and were doing a surprisingly good job of blocking out the sunlight for hotel blinds, so good in fact that House suspected they weren’t the original blinds. The TV was off and the room looked a mess. There were empty takeout containers all over the floor, blankets and empty bottles strewn around and what looked like discarded packaging of some sorts that House couldn’t quite make out. The bedside table too was covered in stubbed-out cigarettes, half-empty bottles of beer and packets of tissues.
Oh, and don’t forget the Wilson-shaped lump lying ensconced in blankets on the bed.
“Don’t think you’re supposed to drink in here, you know,” House commented as he stepped over a collecting pile of bottles near the door, reaching over with his cane to poke where he guessed Wilson’s shoulder was. There was no response. House shrugged a little to himself as he came further into the room. He glanced at the discarded cigarettes on the bedside table. “Or smoke. I thought oncologists were supposed to hate cigarettes?”
“Go away, House,” Wilson mumbled from under the blankets.
House smirked to himself, despite the worry growing in his chest. A response was a response at least, and it meant he’d won, in a way.
“Cuddy says you’re sick,” he said, making sure to raise his voice just above the comfortable level. He heard a long-suffering sigh come from the pile of blankets on the bed. “Sick people don’t get drunk and smoke enough cigarettes to choke a horse.”
“I said, go away,” Wilson repeated.
“No.”
“No?”
There was rustling, and then the lump of blankets moved. A moment later Wilson’s face appeared. He looked awful. He had the blankets pulled up to his chin, but what House could see of him he looked pale, with red-rimmed eyes and greasy hair. There were long-dried tear tracks on his cheeks. House was so shocked that he almost let it show on his face.
“You look like shit,” he said.
“Thanks,” Wilson said dryly. “Really helpful. You think I don’t know that?”
“When did you last shower?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well you should,” House said as he gave Wilson a look. “Smells like a high-school locker room in here.”
“Unless you’re going to shut up, you can fuck off,” Wilson said sharply before shifting back over onto his other side and pulling the blankets over his head.
House blinked in surprise. Had Wilson just... snapped at him? That wasn’t right. Wilson could be downright nasty sometimes but he never snapped (which usually made the nastiness worse, because it was always so calm and measured). As he took another look around the room, his diagnostic brain clicked into place.
“Wilson,” he said, forcing himself to soften his voice. A noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob came from the blanket lump. “Don’t be an idiot.”
“Shut up House,” Wilson replied. His voice was choked.
“When did you stop taking the antidepressants?” House asked as he walked round, using his cane to swipe the empty beer bottles off the bedside chair and sitting down heavily. Wilson’s upset face appeared once again a moment later, looking sadly up at him.
“Saturday,” he mumbled. House gave him a look. “I was feeling better! I-I thought maybe if I...”
“You idiot,” House said, but with more emphasis this time because apparently he done so enough all the other times he’d said it to him. Wilson looked down at the mattress, and he felt a little bad then. “So you called in sick?”
“Couldn’t face getting out of bed,” the oncologist said. “I thought one day, I’d be fine...”
“And now it’s been three days and you’re still here,” House finished. Wilson nodded miserably. House sighed, looking around the room. There wasn’t any sight of anything of nutritional value, or even any water or anything. “When did you last have something to eat?”
“House, please God, don’t,” Wilson groaned as he tried to sit up a little. This ended in him putting a hand to his head and nearly falling back into bed, with House catching him on instinct. The diagnostician grabbed his penlight from his top pocket, gently holding Wilson’s eye open as he checked his pupils. Wilson weakly tried to swat him away. “House, stop, c’mon.”
House did so, but not because Wilson had asked him. Wilson watched his best friend in confusion as House leaned forward, bringing his face so close to Wilson’s that if the oncologist didn’t know better he would have said House was trying to kiss him. In fact, all House did was sniff in deeply.
“You’re still drunk,” he said accusingly. Wilson sighed, putting his head in his hands.
“Yeah,” he admitted quietly.
House pushed down the brewing glare. Wilson was an idiot, yes, but at this point in time he was a clinically depressed drunken idiot, and House knew from experience that the last thing he needed was yelling and admonishment. The admonishment would definitely come later. Now, though, the most important thing was to get Wilson sober and, Jesus Christ, de-smoke this room.
“Come on, up!” House announced. He reached over and pulled the blinds open, causing sunlight to flood into the room. Wilson winced as the sun hit his eyes, bringing up a hand to shield them. In the light he looked even worse. “You can start tidying whilst I put the coffee on.”
”Coffee?” Wilson repeated. House nodded as he got up, heading over to the shitty hotel coffee machine sitting on the side. Wilson sighed, reaching over to the bedside cabinet and grabbing the near-empty packet of cigarettes and the lighter. Opening the packet, he held it out in offering to House. The diagnostician shook his head.
“Heard those things give you cancer,” he said pointedly. Wilson rolled his eyes, putting one in his mouth and lighting it anyway.
Smoke soon permeated the air, and House couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose at it. He’d always hated the smell of cigarettes. They reminded him far too much of his father.
“If you’re doing it to look cool, just know it’s not working,” he said before he could stop himself. “You look like a budget member of the T-birds.” There was a pause as House turned back to the coffee for a moment. “Just with worse BO and without the hot chicks.”
Wilson let out a small chuckle, blowing smoke out of his nose as he tapped the ash from the end of the cigarette into a half-empty beer bottle sitting on the side.
“Just bounce your case ideas off me so you can go,” he said.
“No case,” House replied. He looked around on the side for cups, but came up empty. Grabbing the plastic holder for the tea and coffee sachets, he emptied its contents onto the side and poured the coffee in there. He limped over and handed it to Wilson.
“There’s always a case,” Wilson remarked, sipping the coffee. He made a face. “Eurgh, this tastes like dish water!”
“Shit hotel, shit coffee,” House said shortly. “Drink it.”
Wilson made another face, but did as he was told.
The two were quiet as House moved around the room, nudging things with his cane and occasionally bending to pick them up, and Wilson sat sipping the terrible coffee between puffs on the cigarette. Before long House, through his picking and nudging, had cleared nearly half of the floor of rubbish.
“If there’s no case, why are you here?” Wilson asked quietly as he dropped the cigarette stub into the bottle. The half-flat beer fizzed a little. House shrugged, clearly trying to avoid the question as he reached for the window and cracked it open a little.
“You can’t do this again,” he said, not meeting Wilson’s eyes.
“Answer my question.”
“Listen to me,” House hissed harshly as he planted both hands on the bed and leaned in close to Wilson. He wasn’t sure if it was the cigarettes, the beers or something else entirely, but something had made anger spike inside of him and he couldn’t take it anymore. The oncologist leaned back a little, looking scared. “I know shit seems bad sometimes, but you’re a damn good person and you better not forget it.”
“I’m a three-time divorcee living in a hotel,” Wilson replied, arching an eyebrow.
“Not my point.” House sighed, looking down at the bedsheets. “You can’t do this again.”
“I know,” Wilson mumbled a little miserably.
“Do you?”
“I do.”
“Where are the pills?”
“Bathroom,” Wilson said, gesturing vaguely towards the bathroom. House nodded, heading over towards it. “Cabinet, third shelf on the left,” he called over to him. As House began to rustle in the bathroom, Wilson couldn’t help but put his head in his hands and wallow in a little bit of self-pity. He felt veritably awful: his head was fuzzy from the alcohol, he felt like he’d been chewing on cotton balls for three days and he felt a little nauseous. House soon emerged though, and he looked up in time to see the diagnostician slam the little orange bottle of pills on the side. He stared at his name and the word Prozac staring back at him.
“Take your damn antidepressants,” House said. “Take a shower, get dressed and we’ll go and get food.”
“My treat?” Wilson asked expectantly. Strangely enough, House shook his head.
“Mine,” he said. He moved over to the drawers, seemingly going to get clothes out. Wilson had been starting to get out of bed when he heard House say, “I’m here. If you ever need to talk.”
“You hate it when I talk,” Wilson said a little uncomfortably. House turned then, rolling his eyes so hard that the oncologist was surprised they didn’t pop out of his head.
“I’d rather listen to you talk for an hour or two than have you do this again and do something worse than get drunk and stay in bed,” House said. There was a moment, as the two of them regarded each other carefully.
“Thanks,” Wilson murmured. House nodded a little.
An understanding had been reached.