Chapter Text
“House,” started Wilson, kicking off their lunch break conversation, “I don’t know what to do anymore.”
House took his fork and pierced a piece of his best friend’s salad. Nothing tasted better than food that he hadn’t payed for.
He knew what Wilson was about to bring up. Sam and him had had a nasty argument last night and since they all lived in the loft together, House had eavesdropped on every single word.
And on such a beautiful spring day at Princeton-Plainsboro, James Wilson uttered the words that Gregory House had been subconsciously waiting to hear:
“Sam and I ended our relationship last night.” Wilson was visibly upset by yet another of his relationships failing.
House thought of a witty retort about Sam, but held his tongue. There was something about Wilson’s sad eyes that made his stomach twist ever so slightly, as if those brown puppy dog eyes shouldn’t ever be upset.
“Nothing?” said Wilson, “No insult? No smart ass comment?” His vision blurred a bit as his eyes got tearful. He wanted his best friend of almost two decades to say something. Anything. After all, through all his hardships and wife problems, House has been his only constant. Come on House, say something , he willed.
House took a bite of the salad they were apparently sharing. He had so many thoughts come and go through his mind at a million miles per hour, the kind of thinking reserved for when he finally uncovers the zebra and ends each case. How come Wilson was so quick to drop marriages? And why did he himself kind of want him to drop them? Maybe he just missed spending time with Wilson. Perhaps he still felt like he was responsible for killing Amber. For the first time in a while, House didn’t know what to think. How to think. His thoughts, usually organized carefully in filing cabinets, were now loose papers swirling haphazardly through his mind as he sat and stared into space, thinking of Wilson.
“Earth to House?” whimpered Wilson.
Wilson leaned on the table closer to House, staring at his face. He wanted to understand what gears were turning behind those icy eyes of his but noticed that his stubble had not been shaved and had grown out. His hair was messy and his appearance was overall more disheveled than usual. He looked tired, like something had been on his mind, causing insomnia. He was strangely sweaty too. A nervous wreck. Or maybe it was the Vicodin. Wilson was unsure.
House decided that he was tired of seeing his friend hurt. Pain was all too familiar for him and the thought of Wilson having a pain in his heart made it all worse. He decided to speak his mind. “What are you, gay? This is your billionth relationship down the drain. Looking at it logically, maybe you like men.”
Wilson’s jaw fell to the floor. That kind of retort was on-brand for House, but this time it all felt a little too real. It hurt like a thousand knives. Not knowing what to do, Wilson looked at House in disbelief, stood up, let out a small “oh” and left the cafeteria.
The older man sat alone with the salad. He didn’t know why he had said that. Maybe I was deflecting , he thought to himself. He felt extreme grief from hurting his best friend and decided to go take a nap in a coma patient’s room. He hadn’t slept all night, as Wilson’s reality, as well as his own, were quite different from what society tells people to do.