Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He can’t believe it. He’s kissed House. 

The Gregory House. The man with the limp, the infarction, the leg pain and Vicodin addiction and sarcastic mood. The one who bites and snarls at anyone daring to come close, the one who hates the practical aspect of humans, the same one Wilson had been friends with for… years. The same Gregory House who had no soulmate, who’s string had disappeared long before he tried his hand at dating non-soulmate people, who Wilson tried to pretend he wasn’t desperately, hopelessly in love with. 

They’d kissed. And just then, in House’s apartment with their faces just inches from each other, that same Gregory House had gained a soulmate. 

One that wasn’t Wilson. As far as either of them knew, House’s soulmate was somewhere distant, the red string tied around his ring finger and fading off into the distance. Wilson had stared down at his own finger, and it had been disappointingly blank, the same as it had been for every other ruined marriage, and all the other girlfriends. 

Understandably, House was excited. Or, as excited as he could be. More… curious. He’d wanted to discuss possibilities with Wilson, places his soulmate might live or people it might be, but all Wilson could think about was the static disappointment in his head and heart. And so he’s excused himself, rushing out without having eaten or drank or anything of what he’d usually have done.

And now here he is, lying in his apartment bed, ring finger still empty. He wonders if House is at work, showing everyone the red string connecting him to someone somewhere, and he wonders if Cuddy will be the other end of that string. He hopes not. He’d have to move hospitals, then, because he can’t imagine working alongside the love of his life and their soulmate without it feeling like a terrible, crushing weight. He has enough to deal with already, he thinks, laying in the bed he shared with Amber.

He has so much to deal with. Kissing House had been nice. And now it’s over, and Wilson needs to go to work. 

In the end, he calls in sick. When Cuddy asks, he makes up something about having food poisoning or a stomach bug, and promises he’ll be back the next day. In reality, Wilson is lying in bed, the only illness being the sadness in his bones and the loneliness in his home. He lays there, and he cries. 

House has a soulmate. Of course the annoying bastard does. 

-

It’s midday when Wilson considers getting up to shower. He’s been in bed for most of the morning, and right about now a good shower and some food is starting to feel like an idea he can get behind. It’s been years since he had a long, thorough shower that didn’t involve showering with someone else or feeling completely worthless- and sure, maybe there’s sadness hanging at the tips of his fingers, but it feels a little more out of reach when there’s soft sunlight spilling through his windows and onto his bedsheets, when the sky is blue and clear. 

Hell, Wilson has the day off- he could even go to that bakery down the road he’s been meaning to try ever since he and Amber moved in here. He could order in Chinese and binge the Bachelor. He could get totally hammered and sleep off his sadness. He could do just about anything, but the shower comes first. 

So he drags himself out of bed, ruffling his hair as he sits on the edge of the mattress, and then stretches. There’s a few satisfying pops in his back and a good stretch in his legs, which makes standing just that little bit easier despite how warm he feels and how his head swims from all the laying-down sobbing he’s been doing most of the morning. 

His bathroom isn’t what his other ones have been: Amber wanted him to like it, like she wanted the rest of the apartment to be things they both liked. He’d never had someone do that for him before, especially not someone he was dating, someone who knew and accepted they would never be soulmates. But, then again, Amber hadn’t had a soulmate either. 

The shower has two functions (Wilson didn’t even realize they could), one of which drops water from the roof of the shower down. Wilson doesn’t typically enjoy that kind of thing, and yet, when he experimentally turns the shower knob to let the water fall from the top, he finds that it’s much more appealing. Maybe it’s good, this change, maybe it’s a sign of moving on. So he strips down, and climbs in, and spends thorough time rubbing shampoo into his hair and scrubbing the dirt from his skin. 

It feels much nicer once Wilson is clean and properly dressed. He doesn’t really have a set style outside of his work clothes, but he digs through his closet to find something he hasn’t worn before (possibly because he wants something new, possibly because he wants something that House hasn’t seen him in). There’s a lot he gives up on, but then, tucked away in the corner of his closet is a bag of clothes he hadn’t bothered unpacking, containing a black turtleneck and a tartan pleated wool sweater with pastel blue diamond-square patterns. And that feels quite right, doesn’t it, so he slips the two on and goes for one of his generic black dress pants. Normally, he wouldn’t make such a fuss about what he wears, but today he’s feeling especially like he wants to look good , so he makes a fuss and picks out the best pair of dress shoes he has. 

And now, the world opens up to him. He can do just about whatever, if he wanted. 

-

He goes to the bakery, and he talks with the cashiers, discovering they’re a couple of soulmates who, upon meeting, had decided to funnel every dollar they had into opening the bakery they’d both dreamed of since they were young. It’s a touching story, really. Wilson mentions he’s an oncologist, and they commend him for his work, the same way everyone commends him for his field of work. 

He distantly thinks about House, who had simply hummed and said ‘so, you’ve got a saviour complex, big deal’ upon hearing Wilson was an oncologist. Maybe that’s the reaction he wants.

Maybe he just misses House. 

It’s only been a day. He can’t miss House yet . 

In the end he buys a Cronut and some coffee. They tell him to have a great day and he says ‘you too’ and they all move forward. It’s so mundane. It’s so…. Civil. 

Wilson goes for a walk. He sits and eats his cronut by the lake, and watches the ducks. He goes shopping for pasta and he cooks when he gets home, and it feels just the same as it would any other day. 

Deep down, Wilson wishes it felt like something more. 

-

“Wilson, I hope you’re feeling better! Nice to see you back in today,” The nurse at the front desk calls, smiling cheerfully when he comes in. He has his button up and tie on, and he chose the green one (only possibly because it means House will badger him). He’s wearing his dress pants, clean ones, and a jacket. His hair is combed and his teeth are brushed. He feels so completely normal. He feels so completely alone. 

“Thanks,” Wilson responds, smiling, as he stops by the desk to clock in. “I’m feeling much better. How have you been? Not too busy, I hope?”

The nurse laughs that polite laugh people do when you make polite jokes, and tucks a lock of curly hair behind her ear. “No, no, not more busy than any other day. It’s nice to see you.”

Wilson smiles, like he should. “Nice to see you too.”

And they say their goodbyes, and Wilson goes up to his office. He considers the Oncology lounge because he won’t need to pass by Diagnostics, but he’ll have to face it eventually- he works in the same hospital, and they’re best friends, and even if the last of those go haywire then Cuddy will still come and badger him about babysitting House. 

Diagnostics isn’t empty, but it is emptier than usual. Foreman and Chase are at the table with Cameron, who’s standing and considering the whiteboard. House is… nowhere to be seen. 

Odd. Wilson continues on to his office, ignoring the curiosity tugging at the back of his mind, and the anxiety pooling in his gut. Because now, House could be anywhere , and that’s terrifying. He doesn’t know how to prepare for it.

He never knows how to prepare for House, though. 

When he opens the door to his office, he almost slams it again at the sight of House with his feet up on Wilson’s desk. Instead, jumps a little, and then sets about the way he does every morning: first, he puts his bag down, and second, he hands his coat on the rack. 

“So,” House says. “What are the chances of you mysteriously falling sick right after the reveal of my very-real soulmate?”

Wilson sighs. “I felt sick, House. What did you want me to do?”

House shrugs, and sways a little in Wilson’s chair. It’s infuriating how natural the string around House’s ring finger looks, the same plain red as every other soulmate line Wilson has seen in patients, parents, friends and coworkers. And it’s infuriating how it’s never been an issue until now . Wilson was perfectly fine being soulmate-less, and then House being the cocky asshole he is had to go and get tied up with someone neither of them have met, and all Wilson can think about now is the dumb abscence of a red string on his own ring finger. It’s not House’s fault, Wilson tries to remember. But it sorta is, in a way. If it’d been minutes earlier, Wilson could’ve grinned through it without the knowledge of how House had pressed back against him, how flushed he’d looked when they’d broken apart. 

“I need to get work done. If you’re not going to tell me what you want, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Wilson says, squatting to rummage through his suitcase. He’d taken a few files home with him, meaning to look them over once again, but he hadn’t had time to in the midst of everything. Now, he just prays he has enough time between whatever House has planned and his first patient of the day to look over the files for a minute. 

“I want you to tell me why you’re acting like a kicked puppy,” House answers. “We kissed, I’ve got a soulmate now, so what?”

“ So what ?” Wilson parrots. He pinches his nose, sighs, and turns towards their shared balcony. “Just- I don’t want to deal with this, House. It’s not nothing, you do realize that, right? Soulmates are the be all, end all for people- platonic or romantic. In your case, romantic. I’m sorry that I’m not willing to get involved with that!’ 

God, he sounds like the exact opposite of his ex-wives. House sits there, contemplating, cane leaning against the desk. And even when Wilson turns, intending to be upset with him, he can’t help but admit that House was made to be a smartass. He looks so good when he sits himself in Wilson’s office like it’s his own, when he folds his legs like that, when he gives Wilson the calculated gaze that means he’s trying to bore into the very essence of who Wilson’s trying to be. 

“Best friends can kiss sometimes,” House decrees, like that solves anything . “Doesn’t change much. We got a little too loose and limber with each other, is that so big a deal? Neither of us are gay.” 

Wilson feels like he might be a ltitle gay. For House. 

“Fine, whatever, we can go with that,” Wilson says. He shoves his hands in his jean pockets and looks to the sky. If he was a little more religious, he might start praying for the strength to deal with this. Instead, he swallows, and looks back at House. He tries not to focus on the stubble he can still feel against his face, or the lips against his that sits vividly at the forefront of his memories. “Is that what you wanted? To make me agree that we can just… move on with our lives?” 

“No, I wanted to make sure you weren’t going to vomit all over your pretty little desk,” House answers, sarcasm dripping from his voice as he grabs his cane and begins to stand. “ Obviously I came to make sure we could just move on with our lives. Don’t want anyone spilling the beans on our little rendezvous, would I? Not when I’ve got this bad boy-” House raises and wiggles his ring finger, “To worry about.” 

The door closes a little too sharply for Wilson’s taste. His heart hangs a little too heavy for him to deal with the day. His desk is right there, his files organized and his calendar on display, feeling a thousand miles away with each step Wilson takes towards it. And when he settles in his seat he can still feel the warmth of where House was, and it aches. 

-

“I’m sorry,” He says, to the fifth patient he’s seen. “Your biopsy came back positive for endometrial cancer. The MRI shows that the cancer has metastasized to your liver. We can still operate, but the chances of it making a difference are… low.” 

The fourth was pancreatic, the third was breast cancer, and the second was luckily only paranoid. The first had leukemia. She’d come in with her dad, wearing a bright pink wig, and when Wilson told her the news her dad had cried. Wilson can’t imagine what it’s like to bury your own daughter, and he says that to the dad before they go, the same time he tucks a grief counselor's business card into the other man’s palm. The girl is admitted into the hospital, and Wilson stops by later that afternoon to see how they’re settling in, only to discover the girl is filming about her condition. 

He knows her mother had also died of cancer. He knows her name is Kate. But he knows so little about her that it feels like he hardly knows her at all. She has no string around her finger and she won’t live long enough to get one, but she smiles all the same, and claims her dad got two because she gave him one. 

And it’s all so tiring. He’s tired of being the bearer of bad news. He’s tired of pretending they’re so close to a cure, that soon enough, this field will be the same as infectious diseases or diagnostics, and they’ll cure every patient they see. 

-

“So, dinner?” House asks, sidling up next to him as he stands outside, desperate to feel something other than the ache in his bones. 

“I thought you were going to be celibate until your soulmate came along,” Wilson answers, eyes closed. He knows House is frowning beside him, leaning a little extra on his cane. House probably doesn’t appreciate the little snowflakes falling, but Wilson does, he does. 

House shifts again, probably looking at him for the first time. “Dinner doesn’t mean that you have to break celibacy. Especially since you’re the one buying.” 

Lord, he wants to go back to that couch in House’s apartment and pretend like everything is fine. But it’ll rain later tonight and Wilson won’t want to drive home, and House will convince him not to, and Wilson will spend the night on that couch wondering what it would be like if things were different. In the morning he’ll cook, and they’ll leave for work, and Wilson will feel ecstatic at arriving with House like they’re joint at the hip. But this time, House will have that stupid little red string around his finger, and Wilson will be as plain and bare as ever. 

“No thanks, House,” Wilson answers. When he opens his eyes to the sky, he finds he can see House considering him in the corner of his vision. He turns to catch House’s gaze, and it flickers to his hair, his neck, his lips, before settling on his eyes. In the winter atmosphere, House’s own cheeks are flushing, his nose bit by the cold air, lips the same (if not a brighter) shade of red. 

Wilson thinks he might have kissed House wrong, the first time.

“Why not? Only in it for the sex?” House asks. 

“I’m tired,” Wilson answers. It’s true. “It’s been a long day.” 

“And? What better than winding down to some monster trucks and beer?” House pushes, and Wilson turns to look at the sky again. It’s surprisingly dark. “Come on . This isn’t all because of the soulmate, is it?”

He doesn’t want to admit it. It’s only been a day. He should last longer, pretending to be fine, pretending House’s soulmate doesn’t bother him. But House has always read him better, always known when he was upset, always. Wilson is an open book for him. “And if it is?” 

House frowns. “Get over it.” 

“I can’t,” Wilson whispers, like an admission to the stars. “I’m sorry.” 

He shoves his hands in his jacket pocket as he leaves, head down, the snow no longer comforting. The cold bites at his face as he cries, and he can feel House watching him leave, but he can’t give the doctor the time of day to turn around and try to fix this. He’s tired, and he wants to rest somewhere nice, somewhere warm and safe (and suspiciously too House-like). 

-

His days have become normal. 

Which is what he wanted, really, if he thinks about it. He’s the one that told House he can’t get over the soulmate business, so he’s the one that asked for boring, normal days. He does his job and he goes home to the quiet, and sometimes he musters the energy to cook but most days he orders in and goes to bed at a reasonable time. Cuddy tells him she’s worried about House, that he might be putting patients at danger to deal with his own stuff, and Wilson bites his tongue when she says she can’t wait to have a soulmate for him around so he won’t be so reckless. She says she hopes it makes him happy, having someone, and Wilson rips into the inside of his cheek to keep himself from speaking. 

She doesn’t notice anything wrong with Wilson, and that’s what he wanted. Some part of him wishes someone could read him the way House does, that someone else would see through the facade that everything is fine.

He wears his button ups, his ties, his coats. He washes and brushes his hair each time he showers and cleans his teeth twice a day. He eats the bland, tasteless meals at the cafeteria with any nurse that’s on break with him at the time because now that House isn’t sitting there with him, it’s like the whole staff has opened up to him. For some reason, he wishes it hadn’t. For some reason, he liked it when House was scary enough to prevent people trying to small talk with him through lunch. 

The diagnostics branch is busy: they have case after case, like House is diving into work, and the team shoot worried looks across the conference room, like every time House is going through something. Wilson sits in his office, or in the oncology lounge, and he works. It’s all so normal. It’s all so mundane. 

“Wilson,” Cameron says when she catches him in the hallway. “Sorry, could you slow down? I need a favour from you.”

Wilson slows down, because it’s polite. He feels so normal. “Sorry, I got a bit caught up in my thoughts, there. What did you need, Cameron?”

“I think this patient has Hanahaki. It’s only Stage one, now, but she’ll be in Stage Two soon,” Cameron answers, handing over a file. “I know it’s not typically your area, but we don’t have a department because it’s so rare, and House refuses to take the case. I thought- would you please take it?” 

The patient’s name is Lily, which is ironic, because the flower growing in her lungs is much the same. Female. They’ve identified the plant, but can’t convince her to get the surgery, and she’s… twenty. She’s going to die, and she’s going to die young. Of course that’s why they want an oncologist on the case- even better, a soulmate-lacking oncologist who can relate to someone with hanahaki. 

“Sure,” Wilson says. He’s tired, but Cameron asked nicely, and no one else will do it. No one with a soulmate will want to go within ten feet of someone with hanahaki. They’ll have her quarantined. 

“Also,” Cameron continues, just as Wilson makes to leave with the file. “Would you have any clues who House’s soulmate is? He’s playing some bizarre game where-“

“No,” Wilson interrupts, and guilt floods his bones. “Sorry, I’m- the subject isn’t exactly one I’m- No, I don’t know. House hasn’t… he just hasn’t given me any hints. Maybe he hasn’t met them yet.”

Cameron hums. Her gaze flickers down to her own hand, to her wedding ring, and she frowns. As if she’d known from the moment her and Chase met that he was her soulmate, Wilson thinks sardonically. “Maybe,” She says. Her gaze returns to Wilson, and she smiles, continuing, “Thanks, Wilson. I’ll make sure Taub and Thirteen have this leverage.” 

Then Cameron says thanks for taking the patient, and she walks off. The normal progression of events for normal conversations. Wilson wonders what House is up to, and in the back of his mind, he recalls it’s Tuesday- so he’ll be gearing up for Monster Trucks. Wilson hasn’t checked what races are on this week. It doesn’t seem much fun without someone to share with him. 

-

The hanahaki patient is, indeed, quarantined. Wilson goes through the motions of putting on the hazmat suit, gloves and mask and getting sanitized on entry, before taking the seat beside the patient, whose lips are bloodied and cracked. They’re being treated for dehydration, but there’s no medicine to effectively remove the plant within without killing the feelings with it. 

And of course, the patient has no string around her finger. 

“Hi,” Wilson starts. “My name is Dr. James Wilson, and I’m going to be overseeing your case from now on. Can you tell me when you started feeling ill? Maybe you noticed you were coughing up some blood, or a tightness in your chest?”

“A week ago,” Lily’s hoarse voice breaks the atmosphere in the room, and Wilson barely conceals a flinch. Hanahaki is brutal, and it’s specific. “I’ve had doctors go over this with me a hundred times.” 

Most people who are soulmate-less would give anything to experience the security of soulmates, and then along comes the flowers and thorns in your throat because you’re in love with someone so deeply that your body can’t handle it. It creates a manifestation similar to the string just to cope, and that’s what kills it, slowly but surely. Wilson knows that inevitability is frustrating, terrifying. 

“Alright,” He says, putting his clipboard down. “I guess there’s no reason for me to do it again. Did- did you have any questions? Any requests? What can I do to make this easier for you?”

Lily hums, “Not much. I wish-“

She coughs, then, blood splattering on his lips and chest. Wilson doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift. He’s seen illness a thousand different ways a thousand different times and- it’s easier to pretend this is just like Cancer. She continues the moment she can breathe, saying, “I wish they’d come visit.”

“They?” Wilson asks. 

“Jaz,” Lilly breathes, like the name is an act of worship, and Wilson knows exactly what that’s like. 

“Did…” He clears his throat again, the hazmat suit suddenly stifling all the air in his lungs, almost suffocating him. “I can see if I can contact them, if you’d like.” 

“Don’t bother,” Lily smiles, her lips cracked and her cheeks sunken and she looks so very much like a corpse already that Wilson has to stop himself from crying about it. It’s been such a long, normal week. “The nurse said it’d only make me worse if they did visit. But it’s nice to imagine, you know, to imagine that they’re coming to see me one last time.” 

Wilson nods. Clearly, she needs to say this. Clearly, he can listen. Hanahaki is a dangerous, ravaging disease and Wilson can see why House wouldn’t take it: as fascinating as it is, it’s unknown, and it’s boring because of it. It’s boring because you can’t touch without getting, because it affects people with soulmates (the majority, ironically) so badly that no one bothers to study it because those who have it, die. 

Lily could tell Jaz about her feelings. If they were returned- assuming Jaz doesn’t have a soulmate- then things would be fine. That love, that restless energy within her, would finally have some place to go. But chances are Jaz has a soulmate, and Lily is bound to death because she loves just that bit more than she’s supposed to. 

“Why’d they send you in, Doc?” She asks. Leaning over just so slightly, Wilson raises his hands to show her the lack of a string. But really, the only thing that separates their situations is the flower’s in Lily’s lungs, Wilson thinks bitterly, watching as Lily nods. “Oh. Makes sense, now. Us lonelies have to stick together, I guess.” 

Wilson hums. “Is there anything else I can do? Besides getting Jaz in here?” 

Lily eyes him. “You’re awful good at this,” She says. “The comforting dead people.”

“You’re not dead yet,” Wilson notes. Then, almost apathetically but mostly sarcastically, he notes, “There wouldn’t be much use in comforting you if you were.” 

She laughs. It startles some of the nurses walking by, and it definitely startles the doctors coming to look at the infamous hanahaki patient of PPTH. It’s not a common disease; not rare, either, but certainly not a household diagnosis. Wilson would be one of them, if he weren’t so achingly familiar with how Lily must feel being trapped in a box, never again touched, treated like a weed about to spread roots. 

“I s’pose you’re right,” She says, turning his gaze from the passers by and watchers. “Still. You’ve got to be a professional at this. You an end of life nurse or something?” 

“Not exactly,” Wilson answers. He shifts his feet and puts his hands in his lap. “I am an oncologist, though.” 

“Oncology,” Lily nods. “That’s it. You see this all the time.”

Wilson nods. Lily takes a raspy, struggling breath, and her hand shakes. “Can I tell you what it’s like?” She says. “I wanna make this feel real, doc.”

“Of course,” He answers. He wonders if House will ever look back on this case; wonders if he’ll ever get the chance, again, to tell House about one of his cases. This is the first time all week he’s felt abnormally normal. 

“I wish someone would hold my hand,” She muses instead. Wilson wonders if her painkillers are catching up to her, and as she takes another raspy breath, he wonders if she’s getting enough oxygen. She adds, “I feel so alone. I feel so together. It’s like I’m seeing my whole life in a new light, It’s like I’m… Well. It’s like I’m alone and also… not. It’s going to happen to me, I’m going to die, and I can’t even imagine what life is like without these damn flowers in my lungs. Am I making the right choice, doc? I don’t wanna die knowing I could’ve lived perfectly fine without ever feeling. But I don’t wanna stop loving them the way I do.” 

Wilson thinks about it, but he knows the answer. He’d do the same for House. He’d do the same if it meant dying with that love lodged in his bones, his blood, his breath. So much for her refusing treatment: all she really needed was someone to talk to her about something other than treatment for a while. Or maybe Wilson’s just so sorry and pathetic, pining for someone he can’t ever get, that she’s seen him and decided she’d rather have the surgery. 

He says, “If you want the surgery, just say the word.”

“Jaz doesn’t love me,” Lily adds. “She can’t.” 

Wilson nods, again, because he doesn’t know what else to do Lily doesn’t answer: She coughs, but leaves her statement hanging in the air, like it’s a weight she needs to have there. Like she needs the reminder. Wilson certainly doesn’t need it; he sighs, shaking out his hair the way he normally does when he laughs at House’s dumb antics, and turns back to her. Doctor mode it is, then. 

 “Post-surgery therapy can always help you cope with losing your intense feelings for them. Of course, it’s no guarantee that you won’t still have Hanahaki,” He starts. Lily’s eyes seem unfocused, as she stares at the door to her quarantined room. He continues, “And you need to understand that because it’s such short notice we won’t have time to do any of the usual prep for having those feelings removed.”

Lily still doesn’t say anything. Wilson continues, again, “It’s like losing a limb, they say.” 

“I don’t wanna lose this limb,” Lily says. “But I don’t wanna die, not really, not like this. I love ‘em but what’s the point in that, knowing they can’t love me back?” 

Wilson sighs. “It’s a complicated ordeal.” 

Lily snorts. “Tell me about it.”

“You still have forty eight hours, roughly, before it becomes irreversible. Before you hit Stage Three,” Wilson says. “Give it some thought.” 

Lily nods. “I will.”

Before he leaves, she says, “Doc? Could you come back sometime?”

He will, both to check up on her and to hear her decision, and he says as much. He’ll be back to hear her answer, or to sit beside her as she dies, or to sit beside her as she prepares for surgery. He’ll be back to be beside her the same way he is for every other patient, except this time, he’ll desperately ignore how close to home this illness hits.

Chapter Text

House bursts into his office only moments before Cameron follows, the shorter now-blonde apologizing to Wilson profusely as House does nothing but stare. Wilson nearly drops everything to hear out this latest drama- or whatever it is that has House bursting into his office like this- but catches himself and ends up halfway between packing down and continuing to work. 

“I really tried to get here first,” Cameron says. She turns to House, because Wilson hasn’t responded, and says, “ How are you so fast?” 

“What, because I’m a cripple?” House waves his cane. As Cameron flushes, he continues, “How un-woke of you, Cameron. I’ll have you know plenty of cripples can still run .”

“I wasn’t- that’s not-“ Camerson starts, still flushed, before she throws her hands up and sighs. “You’re insufferable. I’m sorry, Wilson, I tried.” 

“I know,” Wilson says, smiling at her, because she seems like she needs it. “Thanks, Cameron.” 

Cameron seems to take that as a sign to leave- or rather, to hang back by the door beside Thirteen and Taub and Chase, who have all crowded by to watch the show. He feels suspiciously like Lily; being watched through glass walls, his entire existence on display. He wonders if he could get makeshift curtains for her, to make things more comfortable. 

“You took the case,” House says. He doesn’t need to elaborate for Wilson to know what he means; there’s only one case he’s involved with that House would be interested in. 

“Yes,” He confirms. “I did.” 

House pauses for a moment, brow furrowed, and what seems like millions of questions on his lips. Wilson wonders which he’ll ask: he can see House evaluating each of them carefully, trying to figure out which will get him closest to what he wants to know about Wilson. Only ten seconds into this conversation, and Wilson knows he’ll tell House whatever he wants to know. He couldn’t hide anything from him, even if he tried.

It’s as if it’s just them in this room, in some ways. In the way that House has his undivided attention every time they’re together, despite there being a small crowd just outside his door. He flicks his glance over- just to check how many people there are- and House’s gaze instinctively follows. 

“Get,” He says, suddenly, pointing his cane towards the hallway. None of his ducklings move. “I said get. The grownups are talking.” 

Begrudgingly, the small group disbands, and House swings the door shut before addressing Wilson again. “Why?” House asks, leaning on his cane a little harder. Wilson aches. 

“She needed someone willing to see her,” He says. House raises an eyebrow at that, and Wilson sighs. “I’m an oncologist, House. Patients of mine day pretty much every day, and I’m good at end-of-life talks. She needed a doctor who could sit by her.” 

“Typical Wilson,” House says apathetically. “Your savior complex just had to save her flowery day.” 

Wilson sighs. “That was rude, House.”

No apology. Nothing. Because of course: House is still fuming that Wilson can’t move past that little red string tied neatly around House’s ring finger. But Wilson loves him. He misses House like he misses his childhood friends and his stuffed toys and every sentimental gift he’s lost or destroyed. He misses House like he’s half of a whole, absently turning to make remarks while he watches TV only to realize there’s no gray-haired bastard to answer him. And now House is here, in his office, asking Wilson about his Hanahaki patient and it’s all so wrong because he isn’t saying what he wants to say but he’s so glad House is here at all that he can’t bring himself to say anything about it. 

House is worried. Wilson wants House to be worried about him, and all signs point to that being the case. Because House stormed into his office the moment he found out Wilson took a Hanahaki patient, and he’s asking Wilson why. 

Wilson adds, belatedly, “It’s not like I’m examining her without a hazmat suit. There’s very little chance I’ll get the disease.”

“Are you sure you can keep your hands off her that long?” House remarks bitterly, leaning heavily on his cane. “Or have you reformed in your ways, Mr. Sleeps-with-his-patients?” 

“House,” Wilson says, warningly. Something in House’s eyes dares Wilson to beg him to stop. 

“Am I hitting a nerve, Jimmy?” House asks. 

Wilson breathes. Sighs. Presses his fingers into his temple and then his eyes and then runs his hands across his face. “House, I’m not doing this with you,” He says. “She’s a patient and I’m a doctor with no soulmate. That’s it . And you know- you’re a smart doctor, House, you know what happens when people with soulmates get exposed to a Hanahaki case, and Hazmat suits are only so effective.” 

When he finally meets House’s gaze, there’s a look there that Wilson can’t describe. Something between longing and hatred and despair, akin to the look Lily gave him when she asked him to come back. This one feels more desperate, somehow. House studies him- his eyes, the clench of his chin, the heave of his chest- and obviously comes to some conclusion before nodding. 

“There’s studies showing anyone can get Hanahaki,” House comments. 

“I’m wearing Hazmat. I’m masking, I’m distancing,” Wilson says. House studies him again. Infuriatingly, that expression is just even more attractively kissable than most of House’s other ones, and suddenly Wilson is thinking back to the rub of stubble against his chin and a hand on his hip. 

“You said yourself, that’s only so effective,” House says, this time with less bite and more caution. Like he’s no longer fighting, almost begging. But Wilson, deep down, wonders if it’s even worth the caution of hazmat’s. He feels like he’s already suffocating in his own damn version of hanahaki by being so close to House when he can’t have him at all. He guiltily wonders if House would care. 

“ I don’t have a soulmate,” Wilson answers, because he doesn’t like House worrying, no matter how desperately he wants the attention. He lifts his hand, wiggling the ring finger. “It’s effective for me.” 

House nods again. He shifts on his feet, and nods one last time. There’s a long beat of silence where they end up just looking at each other: House’s stubble has grown a little since they last spoke, and the bags under his eyes are heavier, and his shirt is a little more ruffled. His cane has a little scratch under its handle now, and Wilson wonders when that happened. 

“House,” He says, soft, standing to move towards the older. In return, House studies all of him: the crease of his shirt and the knot of his tie, his shoes, the movement of his hands as he tucks them away into his lab coat. Wilson, for the first time in a very long while, allows himself to be selfish in one, small movement. He grabs House’s hand, runs his fingers along the ring finger where his string meets his skin, and House’s breath catches. 

The string feels so warm. Wilson almost wishes he had one, for a moment. So he could feel the heat of the two strings meeting. 

He doesn’t want to scare House away; but then again, chances are it’ll be weeks before they see each other again. Or maybe they won’t see each other anymore. Either way, he can be selfish, here and now and with House looking at him so intently. 

“Thanks for worrying. I’m happy you’ve got someone out there,” He says, instead of please kiss me, I want to be your inbetween, or I’ll forget all about it, just let me be your best friend again. Instead of saying I miss you like you’re a limb and I don’t know how to fix that. House almost looks disappointed. 

He hesitates, but ultimately betrays any rules he set himself, and presses a kiss to House’s cheek, dropping his hand to brush past the man. 

-

He walks to the cafeteria and back to give House time to clear out of his office. Then, when he sits at his desk, all he can think about is the heat of that damn red string on his skin, the brush of stubble against his skin as he kisses House’s cheek. 

So he packs down, and he goes home. Really, he was working late anyway. His shift ended hours ago. He’d have noticed if he were going home with House: but he didn’t, this time, because he wasn’t. Maybe he won’t ever notice his shift had ended again, because he won’t ever go home with House again. 

He orders Pizza for dinner, and winds up watching Monster Trucks anyway. 

-

The next morning he ends up at Lily’s, going through the motions of sanitising and masking up and putting on the hazmat suit and gloves. He forgoes the clipboard: no use, now, because he’s only here to ask about Lily’s decision, and to sit beside her as she dies. Because he feels bad that she’s so lonely: because this is the only interesting thing he has left. 

“Mornin’, Doc,” she rasps out. Her voice, somehow, sounds worse. He nods his greeting to her, and makes a quick check of her vitals to find she’s still dehydrated: it’s a mild case, yes, but chances are the flower is sucking out any water she can get into her, meaning she’ll be lucky if she dies of Hanahaki before she dies of dehydration. She notices his pause and asks, “How ‘m I doin’?” 

“Good,” Wilson lies. Then, “Have you reached a decision?” 

Lily blinks a few times, watching as he puts away her chart and moves to the chair beside her bed. Most of this will be burnt, discarded or thoroughly sanitised once she’s gone. It will be like her room never existed at all. 

“No,” She says. “Still thinking. It’s a tough choice.”

Wilson nods. “I know how that is,” He jokes, and Lily’s lips quirk up- it’s hopeful enough for him to run with it.  “Feeling any better?”

Lily nods, “Just a lititle stiff in the neck. A little weird, but I guess that’s common with dying” 

Pressing his hands either side of her neck- the glands- confirms that, most likely, the roots have spread to her throat. That forty eight hour deadline is looking less and less possible by the minute, Wilson thinks apathetically. She’s probably in her last stretch- if not already in her last few hours- if the significant swelling around her neck isn’t any indication. But he won’t tell her that. She deserves hope.

He busies himself with checking her chart again, and making note of the swelling on her neck, so that his hands have something to do and he doesn’t stand there awkwardly, obviously using this visit as an excuse to avoid walking past House’s office. 

Lily screams. It’s quite sudden: she scrambles to sit up, pushing her legs and kicking at the side of her hospital bed as if someone were there, screaming and yelling, her hands grasping for Wilson. Somewhere in the middle of it all, he drops her chart, and she grabs hold on his right arm and begins to tug. “Get away from me! Get away ! Get- I don’t- Get out !” She screams, voice raw and breathing erratic, as she scrambled to push herself closer to him. “Help me, doc, Help- get them away from me, please , get them away from me, please-“ 

Ah. She’s hallucinating. 

He reaches out to steady her, attempting to settle her back into the bed as he (unconsciously, as if it were second nature) wrangles his hand free to press the nurse button on the side of her bed. She desperately grabs at that hand again, wrapping both of her hands around his forearm to pull it close to her, still yelling and screaming and kicking at something, or someone , as if they were really there. 

“Lily,” he says, and it devolves into a string of what he hopes are calming sentiments as he tries to wrestle himself free or calm her or something. His hand slips, and slips again, and suddenly her hand is pulling at his glove and arm until his glove is seperate from his suit, and there are nurses making their way into the room but not quickly enough, because she wraps her hand around his wrist and tugs and- 

It burns. That’s all Wilson can identify: it burns. 

When he looks at her again, catches her eye as she begs him not to leave, eyes fluttering between things who aren’t there, it’s like he feels the flower begin to sprout in his lungs. He uses all his strength to pull his arm from her, clutching at his wrist with his left, still gloved, hand. Nurses finally enter the room: two, exactly, as he steps back and vaguely registers asking them to administer some lorazepam. 

It burns. Even after he leaves Lily, it burns. 

Distantly, he recognises he has 24 hours before he becomes infectious. That’s enough to get through today and get home. Enough to call in sick tomorrow before he starts coughing. Enough to decide what to do. 

-

The day passes in a blur, and ultimately, he leaves early with directions for his replacement on his desk. He does his best to tidy up: puts some things in boxes and others away, makes it seem like he’s trying to do some spring cleaning, and avoids House like the plague (which seems too easy- possibly deliberately so). 

He gets home, and surveys his fridge. He has groceries to last the week, and chances are, he won’t need much more. By the time he gets to the last of it he won’t be able to digest solids around the suffocating plant in his system: and he has tap water (which will be painful to swallow, but it’s the best he’s got) to fend off the dehydration for the most part. 

He locks his door- luckily for him, House doesn’t yet have a key for this apartment: meaning he won’t be able to get into Wilson’s quarantine even if he wants to. It’s for the best, Wilson tells himself numbly. It’s for the best. 

Somehow, it’s like he’s just made up his mind not to get the surgery. It’s not even a question: he’ll die for House. For the ability to keep loving House. He doesn’t need to question that. 

And even as he goes to sleep, knowing today was the last day of his freedom, Wilson doesn’t question that decision one bit. 

-

There are three identified stages of Hanahaki, Wilson remembers having read in an article. 

Stage one: the flower begins to grow, rooting in the lungs and sprouting their first blossoms, leaving the patient coughing up blood. If the patient has a point of contact, flowers sprout from under the skin- these are the same flowers that are present in the lungs, but may occasionally be a more miniature version. Patients experience difficulty breathing and may begin to cough up petals during this time. 

Wilson starts early. He wakes up coughing blood- which, great. He gets it on his hand and clothes and while he knows it doesn’t really matter because this whole apartment is going to be burnt or sanitised to high hell once he’s gone, it’s kind of disgusting that he has his own blood on his clothes and bedsheets. 

He begrudgingly gets up, gathering tissues by the side of his bed and a bottle of water, too, alongside some painkillers (which won’t do much, but it’s something). Then, he sits in bed, in his boxers and an old shirt House once left at his, and calls up Cuddy. 

“Hey,” He says. She hasn’t answered him; probably isn’t in her office, he notes, checking his clock. It’s only 8. She’ll be checking in with department heads and nurses about now. Maybe in a meeting. “I don’t think I can come in for a while-“

He has to stifle a cough, and ultimately, fails. God , doesn’t that seem like he’s faking it. He winces, cringes, and tries again. “I don’t think I can come in for a while- maybe about a week? I’m, uh, not feeling so good.”

Realistically, he has sick days stacked up. The first one he’s taken in years was the day after he and House kissed. It’s not like Cuddy will force him to come in, either, it’s just that he doesn’t even want her to ask why he isn’t feeling so well. 

“I’ve left some notes on my desk,” He says, swallowing another tingly cough. “About my patients and things. Uh, let me know if… this is alright? Yeah. Uh, bye. Have… a good day.” 

He’s so tired. No one really tells you that Hanahaki is exhausting, he notes, coughing once again. His throat is scratchy, but no amount of water can stop that. He wants to migrate to the couch but that seems like too much work: his legs are full of lead and his head is full of lead and he is tired.  

He lies down, and goes back to sleep. 

-

The next time he wakes, his wrist is sore. When he goes to check it- massage it, maybe, or something to alleviate the pain- he finds that there are small, white, hot-air balloon (or maybe bell?) shaped flowers sprouting from his skin. He almost grabs his phone to research which flower it is, what it means, all the things he knows House is interested in- 

He takes the painkillers beside his bed, turns over, wrenches the blanket from his legs and gathers his stuff. The couch it is. 

Once he’s sufficiently curled up, a different blanket wrapped around him and water on the coffee table, he turns the TV on to some disgusting reality TV show and settles in for the last few days of his life. Ideally, he would’ve spent this time checking things off his bucket list: maybe with House, on some big adventure. Instead, he’s curled on his couch watching Reality TV and trying not to fall asleep. 

Exhaustion is the main symptom of Stage one. Wilson knows that much. 

Somehow, he drifts off. He dreams restlessly and of nothing: somehow, the dreams of nothing are both more comforting and more terrifying than the restless waking. He coughs, and he drinks water, and he feels like shit. That’s really all he does, until he wakes with a start to the sound of his phone ringing. In his bedroom. 

Dammit. He staggers up, fending off the splotches of black that threaten to overtake his vision, and blindly makes his way back to his bedroom while dragging the blanket (which has somehow latched onto him, or tangled around him, he can’t be bothered to check) with him. When he finally , finally makes it to his bedroom, he has to spend another five minutes searching desperately for the sound of the rings (which stop, and then start again, meaning this person wants ahold of him now ) before he can click ‘accept call’ and bring the phone to his ear. 

“Wilson,” Cuddy says on the other side. “Are you alright?” 

He blinks. For a moment, he wonders why she’s asking, and then he begins to cough. Still just blood: a good sign for his progression. It means the flowers haven’t started to bloom yet. 

“Yeah, fine,” He manages to get out through the sore hoarseness of his throat and the stabbing pain in his chest. “Just a little bit sick.” 

He can practically feel Cuddy disapproving of that. “Well, you have sick leave,” She says. “Take all you want. Do you… need anything?” 

God, yes, he thinks. He could really go for a vanilla cake right about now, or some apple juice, which is odd because he never thought he liked apple juice before. He’d kill for some cafeteria salad, too, which he also doesn’t like. Fuck, if he could get his hands on some chicken soup, he may just be willing to give up and die on the spot. 

Instead, he says, “Ah, no. I’ve stocked up.”

Liar, he can almost hear House saying. He hardly ever stocks up for his illnesses, even if they are just colds. Which… this is not. This is his last illness ever. No more chicken soup or apple juice or shoddy cafeteria salad. Just… stale bread and butter and some vegetables. 

It hits him, then, that this is it. He almost feels like crying. He almost feels… numb. 

Cuddy’s heels tap on the other side of the phone. She’s walking somewhere. Wilson would give anything to walk somewhere, outside , right now. One last breath of air. He took it for granted last time he did it. 

“Well, let me know,” She says. “If you need anything. Anything.”

He smiles, despite himself, and says, “I will.” 

When all is said and done and the phone call ends, Wilson is left with his phone in his hand and his couch blanket wrapped around him while he sits, cross-legged, on his bed, alone. He’s alone. Which is sort of what he wants to avoid: he looks around, and wonders if it’s worth calling in to the hospital and quarantining there instead. Maybe then he’d have visitors. 

But… then he’d have to see House. Every single day, he’d see House walking around. Maybe working on a case, maybe pretending not to feel guilty for killing Wilson. Everyone would know, then, that Wilson couldn’t do what they all did and stay away. Whether that’s from Lily or House, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know which would feel worse to be judged on.

He doesn’t want to be the poor, kindly doctor who dies with everyone around him getting to watch. He wants to stay here and die on his own terms, surrounded by all these things he has memories of and with. He wants to die on a couch where he knows he and House have spent time laughing: he wants to die here, alone, without anyone looking. 

He’s going to die here. He’s going to die here alone. 

-

He eats oatmeal for breakfast and does, in fact, end up searching for what type of flower is going to slowly kill him from the inside out. He figures that he might as well know something about the thing that’s going to end him, and besides, it makes him happy to be able to imagine the comments House would make about the flower choice. 

He starts thinking it’s possibly a closed mayflower, but dismisses that because they don’t have anything on the petals that would cause the bottom part of the hot-air-balloon shape his flower has. Then, he thinks of trailing arbutus, but again: no bottom shape to the petals. Finally, he settles on plain and proper Arbutus, also known as Madronõ. 

It fits: they have the same shape, colour, and size. It’s almost ironic, because the flower’s fruit itself is spiky with very little flavour, but when distilled, can be used to make Rum or a fruity liqueur. House would love that. 

House would also, Wilson figures, make a quip about ‘pollinating’ the flowers so they could make some of their own rum or liqueur. Inappropriately, too. He moves on to symbolism pretty quickly, because he’s a curious guy and now that he’s spiralling down this rabbit hole he might as well spiral hard. 

Turns out that’s all he can stomach before putting his oatmeal away, because the symbolism according to this one site he’s found is simply the phrase: “ Thee Only Do I Love”. 

Chapter Text

Cuddy calls again. Sometime between when he finishes breakfast and moves back to the couch (this time with everything he might possibly need) , the clock has changed to 2pm and Cuddy calls again. 

He tries to clear his throat and not sound quite as bad as he does when he says, “Hello? Dr Cuddy? What do you need?” 

“Wilson,” Cuddy says, in a voice that makes every alarm in Wilson’s body go off, all at once, in synchronised unity. Please don’t need extra hands, he thinks, as he straightens himself on the couch and braces for whatever she says next. Maybe he should explain to her- she would cover for him, right? She always covers for House, and Wilson’s been a good doctor from day one- right, but not House-level good. Just average good. I mean, for fuck’s sake, he’s stuck dying in his apartment by his own choice rather than simply quarantining at the hospital. That’s not House-level genius, that’s just pathetic. 

“I’m sorry,” Cuddy says. “I thought I should call and tell you myself. House offered, but …” 

She trails off, probably expecting Wilson to question that. Maybe for Wilson to ask for House to call him. But… House would make it so much worse, and the moment he started coughing so violently, House would know it wasn’t a simple cold. House would know . 

“What is it?” He asks, instead, curling his knees to his chest. God, his chest hurts. 

“Your Patient, Lily Harris, is dead,” Cuddy says. “She died earlier today. This morning, in fact. A nurse mentioned that you’d been overseeing her case, and I figured that you’d want to know.” 

Lily is dead. It’s almost a relief, because Lily deserves relief and life sure as hell wasn’t one for her. He thinks of Jazz, and realises he never asked after her family (but they would’ve come, he figures, if she had any), and he feels like he’s hurling himself towards that inevitable end, the same end as Lily, only lonelier. 

She had nurses and doctors; he has his TV and the odd poetry book. 

“Wilson?” Cuddy says, her voice breaking up through the speaker of his phone, and Wilson doesn’t like one bit how worried she sounds about him. Because she shouldn’t worry. Because he’s a lost cause anyway. 

“I’m here,” He says. Then, “Just… taking it in.”

“Do you want me to stop by?” She asks, soft, impossibly soft and not soft enough because it’s not House , and if she stops by he’ll be pleasant and nice and everything he normally is. She won’t notice anything is wrong but he’ll still want someone to notice, and he can’t handle that. He wants to get upset and scream and tell the world it’s so unfair , but he won’t do that to Cuddy. 

House is another question. House would let him get upset. 

“No,” He says. It doesn’t sound sure. “No, I’m good, just… y’know. It’s always rough losing patients.”

That’s why we don’t get close, he thinks, recalling one of his first conversations with House’s little duckling Cameron. Because patients die and there’s nothing you can do but watch and try to offer them comfort: this time, Wilson couldn’t do either, and Lily would have died alone. He hates that. He hates… this . 

Cuddy makes a noise on the other side that sounds like understanding. Wilson wishes House were there to make some snarky remark about the whole thing. 

“I’m fine,” He says, again, a little stronger. “Have you… she wanted her family and friends notified.”

“Already on it,” Cuddy answers.

Wilson nods, then, remembering Cuddy can’t see him, says, “Thanks.” 

“It’s no problem,” Cuddy says, breathless, like she was hoping he’d take the news so well. Wilson knows she was hoping he’d take the news well. It’s the only reason he isn’t screaming right now. “I’ll see you when you’re better, alright? Take all the time you need, Wilson. You deserve it.” 

Wilson swallows. I’m dying, he wants to tell her. 

“Thanks,” He says again. “I’ll… see you soon.”

He hangs up on her. It’s rude. 

Lily’s dead. He’s dying. House hasn’t even called.

His house is so empty sometimes. There are spaces in his apartment that feel like someone should fill them, and the silence is to silent, and the noises he makes are too wrong and quiet. The walls echo nothing back to him: there is no chatter, or laughter, or snarky remarks about his vegetables coming from the kitchen or any other room in his home. 

He can pretend as long as he wants that he is sitting here in silence, waiting for it to break, waiting for House to turn a corner and everything to be okay. But the house is still just as empty, as quiet, as devoid of life. 

It starts with the crying. He doesn’t realize there are tears on his face until he’s scrubbing at them, sniffing and breaking the silence with sobs.l and hiccups and small gasps of breath. His wrist burns and aches and his chest hurts and stings and he is dying. 

Stage Two of hanahaki often presents first with the coughing up of fully-formed flowers. Stage Two will often begin with a harsh, long cough attack that can begin with the coughing up of petals and end with the coughing up of fully formed flowers, but may not always follow that progression. In Wilson’s case, it does. 

It starts with the crying. He cries until he coughs and gets blood all over his hands and elbows. He tries to grab for tissues but his vision is splotchy, dotted with circles of black that burn away at his vision as he keeps coughing, and there is something lodged in his throat that just won’t budge, no matter how hard he rasps or coughs. It shifts, and something comes out, but he keeps coughing and it still isn’t gone. 

Again, he coughs, and more of it breaks away to pour out. He can barely make it out, but through the haze of his vision he can almost see it clearly: small, hot-air-balloon shaped white flowers that are stained with his blood, spread on the blanket and in his hands, surrounded by blood. 

Arbutus. 

Finally, finally that thing in the back of his throat dislodges and pours from his mouth, a series of the small, white flowers he’s come to know as Arbutus. He doesn’t remember when he’d pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, but as he settles back into a sitting position and heaves in breaths of air, he realizes that this makes no sense . 

He was in stage one earlier this morning. Stage two should only have presented a minimum of twenty four hours afterwards. 

It hasn’t even been a day. 

-

Between coughing, he sleeps. Between sleeping, he eats and drinks. Between coughing, sleeping, eating, and drinking, he sits and stares at the television until his eyes go blurry and his raspy breaths even out, until his limbs have gone numb and his eyelids droop, until he can’t move his head away. The sun sets, and the moon rises, and then the moon sets, and the sun rises. It does this again. Wilson lives off of instant mash and oatmeal, the same unwashed glass of water, and the few painkillers he can find in his rare bouts of standing up. 

He watches, and he doesn’t move back to his bed, like he planned to. He wants to die on this couch. He wants to die on this couch because if he sits just right, just still enough, for long enough, he can still catch the smell of House on his old shirt and the pillow he always hogs. 

There are more productive ways to die. Wilson knows there are more productive ways to die. 

He’s so tired. 

-

He dreams of nothing, but in this nothing, he dreams of memories. Sometimes he is with House, sometimes he is at his childhood home, sometimes at the academy he went to before private school. Sometimes he is sat by a lake he’s never been to before. 

Mostly, he dreams about Chinese takeout and monster trucks. He thinks that’s when he’s been at his happiest. 

He dreams of a bus, once. He sees Amber on the bus. She gives him a knowing look and nothing more, and then Wilson is alone, on the bus, slowly driving into infinity. 

-

Cuddy calls again and he misses it. House doesn’t call. Cameron calls, he misses it. It’s been such a long few days and he is tired, so tired, all of the time. 

His throat hurts. His chest hurts. Everything burns. 

He can’t move, besides coughing up fully formed flowers, letting them rest on his skin and the blanket. It’s disgusting, he feels disgusting , and he wishes there were any reason not to be. But isn’t dying meant to be disgusting, in some way? Isn’t it meant to be an excuse not to look so put together? It’s not meant to have dignity, and isn’t that the point? That Wilson would give all his dignity and life just to love House, just for a little while, just silently on his own. 

His mouth tastes tangy, metallic. His mouth tastes like blood. 

House has a soulmate and Wilson can’t wait for them to meet. Wilson can’t wait for House to feel this deeply in love, even if it isn’t for him. It’s wonderful and terrible at the same time. 

It hurts so bad to know he won’t get to be there when that happens. It hurts to know House won’t grieve him: not properly, not like how he grieves never seeing House again. It hurts and it stings and he’s both terrified and content at the same time. 

Dying feels too easy, he thinks one last time, coughing up more flowers onto his lap. 

-

He wakes with a startle to the sound of someone knocking, repetitively, harshly on the door. The sound is grating; it echoes in his head and reverberates through his bones. His lips are cracked and dry, his throat scratchy and sore, his chest aching, and the last thing he wants to do s get up from his moderately comfy ‘dying spot’ on the couch. 

But straight up telling someone to go away is rude, so he groans and does his best to yell, “Who is it?” 

“Me, you idiot, who else knocks with a cane around here?” House’s distinct voice replies, muffled by the door. Wilson can practically feel the stab of longing take root in his heart, spreading to his lungs as he coughs again. Disgusting . House, impatient as ever, continues, “Open up, Jimmy, I’m not getting any nicer out here.” 

“House, go away,” He answers, because he can be a little bit rude to House. And because if House doesn’t go away (which he won’t), then Wilson risks opening that damn door just to see him one last time , and that’s not fair on House or House’s future soulmate. Wilson’s felt selfish before, but not that selfish. Never that selfish. 

“Sorry, no-can-do,” House replies. “You’ve been gone for three days. You didn’t even show up to work for your little pity-fest with the family of your patient who died. Normally you’re all over those kinds of things.” 

Wilson groans. The one fault of having House as a best friend: He notices everything . 

“Well, you can’t come in,” He says. “I’m not letting you get whatever bug I have.” 

House hums, at that, tapping his cane on Wilson’s door. He’s obviously trying to provoke Wilson to open the door just to stop the tapping, but Wilson can’t even bring himself to move, let alone get upset. It’s… nice, having House bug him. Having someone other than himself to talk to before he dies. 

Oh god, he’s going to die. He has so much he wants to say to House. He coughs a little more, and out comes a bundle of little arbutus’, and suddenly Wilson wants nothing more than to cry. He gathers his bedding, shaking the little white flowers off, and drags himself to sit by the door. House won’t die unless Wilson touches him or anything inside the room, and Wilson can be a little selfish, right? He deserves a little bit of selfishness before he dies. Just a little .

“Open the door, Wilson,” House says, as Wilson settles with his back against it and a blanket wrapped tightly around his shivering body (when did it get so cold ?), but House’s voice isn’t soft. It’s… nervous, maybe. 

“I can’t,” He answers. There are tears threatening his vision and it’s so, so cold. God, he missed House. He’ll miss him right up until he dies, he thinks, the same way he’ll love House until he dies. “I can’t,” He says again, nothing more than a whisper. 

“Wilson,” House stresses. “I don’t care how big of a savior it makes you feel not to get me sick, open the damn door.” 

Wilson shakes his head. His face feels hot and his feet feel cold and everything is sticky and wet with his blood and his tears and the little white flowers that bloom from his wrist and lungs. God , he can’t open the door, but what wouldn’t he give to see House one last time? 

He’s getting more than enough just talking to him one last time. He should be grateful, and yet, all he can think about is how lonely he feels not seeing House. Is he making that face he always does when Wilson gets him upset? Or is he trying to piece this together like one of his cases, brows furrowed, lips downturned, eyes focused on their target? Can he hear Wilson sobbing on the other side of the door? 

House hits the door with his cane. Wilson tries to ignore how badly that makes his chest ache, as another bundle of arbutus comes pouring from his lips in a painful series of coughs. He’s coming up on Stage three, he thinks a little deliriously, and then, House is going to hear me die.  

“ Dammit, Wilson,” House practically yells on the other side of his door. “Open up!” 

“No,” Wilson answers. It hurts . 

“I know you have Hanahaki and I am telling you to open up, you moron ,” House snaps, twisting the doorknob. “Do you know dumb you have to be to isolate on your own ? Did medical school teach you nothing !? Open the door !” 

Huh. He knows. He wants the door open. 

Wilson always was his conscience. 

“I’m not opening the door,” Wilson says, and his voice sounds like shit . “I’m not letting you die, House.” 

“ I’m making the fully-informed choice to come in,” House argues. 

“No, you’re not,” Wilson responds. He’s thought a lot about this, the past few days. What it’ll be like when House finds out. He should’ve known it would be sooner rather than later, but he’d hoped it wouldn’t be. He takes a deep breath, continuing, “You’re making a choice based on how you feel , House. You’re scared of losing me. You… you need me.” 

Silence. He hears House’s head hit the door, and knows his hand is white-knuckle gripping his cane. He can’t hear House reach for or take any Vicodin, but  he can’t be certain. He can never be certain, with House. Part of him loves that, as frustrating as it is. 

“I think,” Wilson starts. He coughs- all blood, no flowers, this time- and then starts again, “I know you’ll be fine, House. You’ve got someone out there who’ll love you just as much as I do, if not more. You don’t need me as much as you think you do/” 

“Wilson,” House says. Is he crying? 

“Just,” Wilson shifts, moving his blanket tighter around his shoulders, and he knows this request is selfish. He knows he’s been selfish since the day he first coughed up those little flowers- no, since the day he kissed House. He’s been selfish and he doesn’t regret a moment of it, but boy , does it hurt feeling the consequences. “I need you to… to tell me that you…” 

He can’t. That’s too selfish, and Wilson always walks the line betweens selfless and selfish like a balanced art. So he shifts again, sighs without coughing (something he hasn’t done in ages ), and says, “I love you, House. I’m sorry. You’ll… Promise me you’ll be alright.” 

God, he sounds like Amber. Did she feel just as cold when she died? At least she had the pleasure of being held, Wilson thinks, and that just makes him cry harder. 

“I can’t,” House says. “Open the door, Wilson.” 

“No,” Wilson says. 

“Just… okay, don’t open the door,” House says. “I can get my team in here with hazmat suits, get you to the hospital, and get you the surgery.” 

“I don’t want the surgery, House.” 

“Then- There’s studies showing that antibiotics slow the progression and make you less infectious,” House begins. His cane is tapping again. “We’ll get you those. Take ‘em, and then get the surgery, or something. Just don’t be an idiot and die , Wilson, that’s just- just dumb! You’re dying for what , love? How noble, we’ll all remember your great suffering for your lover. Now get the damn surgery!” 

“I don’t want the surgery, House.”

“You idiot. I told you this would happen,” He continues. “I told you not to take the case because you’d end up sick and- and now you’ve done it! You’ve gotten sick! That doesn’t mean you should stop fighting , Wilson, just- just get the surgery, please?” 

He snorts. “You never say please.” 

“You’re being an idiot ,” House responds. 

“I know,” Wilson answers, sniffing. “I’m also not getting the surgery, House.” 

His hand hurts. House is pacing on the other side of the door: He can hear the repetitive tap of his cane against the floor, and it’s comforting, even if WIlson wants House to stop worrying. He takes a deep breath, and begins rubbing at his wrist, attempting to alleviate some of the pain. His pills and water are all the way over by the couch, and he doesn’t want to move. 

There… His wrist is smooth. Where did the flowers go? He pulls his wrist out from under the blanket, furrowing his brows as he looks at it because this is just his normal, non-flower wrist. That shouldn’t be possible- there were flowers blooming in the shape of a hand just the other day, and he still has blood on his blankets and clothing. House is still in the hallway, pacing. None of it was made up: But then where are the flowers? 

“House,” He says, and he tries not to sound too nervous. The pacing stops. 

He has a soulmate. 

There, on his ring finger of his left hand, the one that was previously spent running over the patch of flowers that had appeared on his right, is a red string, tied neatly to form a circle (as if he were wearing a ring) around the finger. It feels… warm. A fuzzy kind of warm.  

“Wilson,” House answers, a plot to get him to continue speaking, probably, but Wilson’s too busy focusing on the string tied to his finger. He’s never wanted a soulmate before, but suddenly, everything just feels complete . Like he was meant to have a Soulmate, no matter how he felt. 

He follows the trail of the string with his eye, standing to really let it get a sense of direction, and finds it goes through the door. What the fuck. 

“Wilson,” House says again, soft, softer than Wilson has ever heard before and it makes his stomach sink. “Open the door.” 

“I…” Wasn’t he just dying of one of the most devastating diseases known to soulmates? Wasn’t he just prepared to waste away without ever seeing House again? Wasn’t House just yelling at him for being dumb, for not getting the surgery? 

And now he’s got a soulmate. 

“No,” he says, but he wants to open the door so badly and see if they really are tied to one another. Now it’s nothing but his own fear stopping him, and he knows that, but dammit if he isn’t scared and House will never look at him the same if they aren’t, because Wilson knows his string leads to House. There’s no one else in the world it could have led to, besides maybe Amber, and she’s dead. Gone. 

Fuck. Fuck. His chest feels clearer than ever: he can breathe a lot easier, and yet there are tears running down his face and he can’t get his breath under control because he’d been so ready to die, and now here he is, alive, for better or for worse. 

At some point his knees give out on him and he ends up on the floor again. He feels like a mess. Probably looks like one, too. This isn’t… he was meant to die. He was so ready for it. He was fine with it, dying alone, as sad as it made him. He was… 

He can’t really breathe in this position. His chest hurts. He hurts. This sucks. 

There’s movement on the other side of the door: rattling or jingling or something, but Wilson can’t make sense of it over how loud his thoughts are. He runs his hand through his hair and stares at the little string on his finger and everything feels terrible. What is he going to tell House? 

Nothing really changed, while he was dying. He didn’t tell anyone. But House? House knew. Knows . Whatever the word he’s meant to use for this situation is. What does he say now? What does he say when he sees House again and the string on his finger leads right back to the same guy he’s been shutting out of his life for the past few weeks? 

Before, he could ignore how softly electric House made him feel. Now it’s on display, plainly, for everyone. 

Oh god. 

The door swings open. Oh god. He buries his face in his hands and he doesn’t want to deal with this , not one bit; he just wants to go back to sleeping and crying and… normal. He wants anything but that. 

“Wilson,” House says, and he sounds closer than before. 

“Don’t, House,” Wilson replies, digging his palms into his eyes. He sucks in a breath, shaking, watching the colours bloom behind his eyes. Here comes House, ready to make fun of him and his pathetic one-sided love. Here comes House, ready to mock him for ever having fallen in love in the first place. “Please. Just… don’t .” 

“I think you’re going to want to see this,” House continues, and Wilson can hear the tap of his cane making its way around his apartment. He almost wishes House would leave. He does wish the floor would swallow him whole. “Come on. Open your eyes. You’re not the four year old here, that’s my role.” 

“House,” He groans, and barely finds the energy to take his palms from his eyes and open them. As it is he can only manage to state at the open door, straight ahead, finding shapes in the hallway and wallpaper. He just wants one, simple , clean cut with House. Because then, maybe , he has a chance of getting over the man. “This isn’t funny.”

“Never said it was, Jimmy,” House answers. He sounds far too happy for the situation. “Come on. Look at me, alright? I’m a little too busted up to get on the floor with you, but I promise, you’re gonna like what you see.” 

“This isn’t funny,” He repeats. “I don’t- look, I’ll move, alright? We don’t have to talk about it. It’s… it’s fine. I’ll cut the string or whatever, and you can go back to looking for your soulmate, and I’ll… end up how I was supposed to end up.” 

Silence. Fuck . 

“No one has to know,” He says. “No one- you don’t- just. Please don’t do this to me, House. I can’t…”

“You idiot,” House says, and it seems affectionate. The tip of his cane nudges at Wilson’s head, and he’s so tired, everything feels too much, and he lets House move his head. 

They’re… 

“Told you,” House says, wiggling his ring finger. 

…Soulmates. They’re soulmates. 

“What?” Wilson hears himself asking, but all he can do is marvel at the string connected to House’s finger, winding down to connect to Wilson’s finger. House is sat on the arm of Wilson’s couch, hair ruffled but still pretty, eyes focused on him like there’s nothing else in the world. 

 Wilsonn moves his hand away and watches the string lengthen to follow, and then, he pushes his hand towards House and watches the string shorten. It feels so warm. Wilson can’t stop smiling. 

“Yeah,” House answers, like he can hear Wilson’s marvel. 

“How? I just- I was-“ Wilson takes a breath, shuffling forward on bruised knees, vaguely aware of the dried blood on his hands and knees and clothes and face. He needs a shower. “How?” 

“That’s what I’m asking,” House answers. “You were dying.” 

“I… was,” Wilson replies. He watches as the string shortens while he hovers his hand over House’s, barely touching but enough to feel the buzz of the two strings together, and Wilson can’t help but let his smile grow. 

“Dying didn’t make you any prettier,” House continues. Wilson scoffs, snorts, and continues watching as their string pushes and pulls, an infinite line of red always connecting them, forever. Somehow, this feels better than any wedding ever could. “You need a shower, Wilson.” 

“Right,” He says. Then, blinking, says, “Let’s start with that. Give me… uh, give me five minutes to clean up, too. Then we should talk.”

“Talkings no fun,” House says, eyes also watching the motion of their string. “How about I join you in the shower, once you’ve got all that blood off you, and we skip to the kissing part?” 

Wilson half-laughs, at that, and slowly brings himself to stand (with the help of the couch). “As much fun as that sounds, I think I’m going to need to pass. I feel disgusting .” 

House makes a face. “Fine, be like that,” He says. “How about you shower, pack your blow dryer in your suitcase, and come to mine?” 

“Seriously?” Wilson asks. He surveys the room: there’s blood and flowers on everything (it hadn’t been a dream, or a lie, or a fluke- the flowers are there, the flowers are real ) and empty plastic water bottles and pill sheets litter the floor and couch. A half-eaten bowl of oatmeal is haphazardly settled on the coffee table’s end, a splotch of blood on the rim and some flowers on the bowl. 

He desperately needs to clean, and he desperately doesn’t want to. 

“Go shower before I change my mind,” House answers, settling his chin on top of his cane handle. 

Chapter Text

He steps out of the shower, wipes his mirror down, and runs his hand through his hair before stopping to admire the red string around his left ring finger. The string has rotated around to maneuver through the door to House, who’s probably raiding Wilson’s kitchen for food, but it still connects in a neat, warm ring around Wilson’s finger. 

He has a soulmate. A soulmate that is House. The Gregory House. 

Wilson goes through the motions of putting product in his hair, brushing and blow drying to perfection before he puts on clean clothes that don’t have splotches of blood on his chest, and he can’t stop smiling every time he catches sight of his left hand ring finger. Because his soulmate is House. 

Suddenly, ever having doubted that fact feels so stupid.

-

“So, Jimmy,” House says, still sat on the arm of Wilson’s couch, admiring a small bundle of a white flowers- Arbutus- the kind that, minutes ago, were going to suffocate Wilson to death. “What kind of flower am I?” 

“The flower represents the bond, not the person,” Wilson says, placing his suitcase by the door. House shoots him a look, twirling the flower bundle in his hand, and Wilson continues, “An Arbutus, I’m pretty sure.”

“A strawberry tree flower?” House answers, turning his gaze back to the flowers. “That is so not me.”

“Again, bond, not person,” Wilson reminds him. Then, “I don’t know. I heard the fruit can be made into rum or liqueur. That seems right up your ally.” 

“It’s also traditionally used as a cure for colds and tuberculosis, as well as the basis for contraception,” House tucks the bundle into the pocket of his jacket, standing to pass by Wilson and into the hallway as he says, “Which, if I’m not mistaken, aren’t great things to base a romantic relationship on.” 

“I don’t know, maybe I fell in love with you for your medical skills,” Wilson answers, following House into the hallway with his suitcase. “Maybe that’s what it means.” 

“How shallow of you. I’m so much more than my work, Wilson.”

-

Mercifully, House lets Wilson drive them over in his car, leaving his Motorbike outside Wilson’s apartment to be collected tomorrow (or sometime in the future). The ride itself is quiet, with House fiddling away with the stereo and making occasional comments about the song choices, but somehow the silence feels nice . Right, even. 

That same, just right silence follows them all the way into House’s apartment, follows as Wilson departs his suitcase by the bathroom door, and lasts until Wilson sits himself down on the couch beside House, deciding it’s time to grow up and talk. 

“Alright,” He starts, redirecting House’s attention from the TV, where he’s clicking through channels on low volume. He has the face of a child who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, caught guilty with a hint of remorse, as he turns to face Wilson and rolls his eyes. It’s clearly a ‘do we really have to do this?’ , so Wilson responds, “Yes, House, we have to talk.” 

“I’d like it better if we just started making out,” House answers. 

Wilson has to take a moment with that one. “That comes later.” 

“That’s so unromantic,” House answers, arm slung over the couch and leg propped up on the table. He always looks so at home, Wilson thinks softly. “Fine, get on with your talking.” 

Now that they’re actually here, Wilson can’t remember at all what he wanted to talk about. He knows… vaguely, he knows he wanted to ask House about why he was so willing to walk in and take care of Wilson, knowing he would die as a result, but he knows that answer won’t be a real answer. So he changes tactics: the basics. They can work that out, and Wilson will just ask House about the whole ‘nearly dying’ thing later, when he’s in one of his ‘serious talk’ moods, or something. 

“Are we… telling people?” Wilson asks. 

House wiggles his ring finger. “It’ll be hard not to, Wilson. We’re bound by the universe .” 

Oh fuck, right. Wilson never asked, he just assumed that- oh fuck. “House,” he says, sitting there, fiddling with his shirt and his hands and anything to take his mind off this conversation. “You know that if you didn’t want this- like, you didn’t want to be soulmates or anything- you could tell me, right?” 

House narrows his eyes, facing Wilson for a brief moment before he says, slowly, “I know.” 

“And you’re… okay?”

“Yes, Wilson, I’m okay with being your universe-assigned destiny,” House replies. 

“About that,” Wilson starts, because he wants to give House time to cut in and ramble. Nothing. “Are we… what are we, now, exactly?” 

House shoots him a look that makes it seem like he’s an idiot for asking. “Soulmates, duh,” House answers, hand still on the remote. 

“Yeah, okay,” Wilson continues, throwing his hands up. “But are we soulmates who kiss or are we soulmates who don’t ?” 

House hums, “I’m in favour of the kissing.” 

“Okay,” Wilson nods. Then, trying to prompt House into giving him a label or something to work with, he says, “And that makes us…” 

“What do you want to hear? That we’re lovers? ” House answers, rolling his head to the side to look at Wilson. Catching Wilson’s eye, he grins, and Wilson can’t help but mirror it. “Or would you prefer Boyfriends? Doesn’t matter. We’re kissing, we’re soulmates. Us? Gay, label or not.” 

“Okay, so, we’ll stick with boyfriends,” Wilson answers. “Which fits, since you’re trying to avoid this conversation like a child.” 

House shrugs, “Like I said, label or not, you’re my universe-prescribed piece of lovin’, baby.” 

Wilson laughs, and settles with his back against the couch. “Alright, House,” He says, and watches the TV zoom in on an F1 racer. “What about… how slow are we going?” 

“God, you’re full of questions, aren’t you?” House responds. Wilson shoots him his best ‘ honestly’ look, and House continues, “Fine. We’ve already kissed once- which was great, by the way, definitely more of that- so we can start there.

“But we’ve never spoken about ‘how fast’ or ‘what we are’ before. We just are. I don’t see why that has to change,” House finishes, back to the TV, brows furrowing as he flips through the channels again to avoid the commercials before turning the TV off. “Can we do the kissing now? Or does that come after another stupid question of yours?” 

To answer him, Wilson shifts forward, taking House’s face in his hands. He can hardly stop smiling long enough to kiss House, but when he does, it’s everything he imagined and more . House kisses like it’s the last time he’ll ever kiss anyone again, and Wilson loves it, is suddenly desperate for it, kissing into House’s mouth and moving forward, closer, until he can’t take it anymore and he has to break away and laugh with how happy it makes him feel. 

“One more thing,” House says, and Wilson pulls back, still smiling, to give him the space to talk. “That green tie of yours has gotta go.” 

-

They walk into work together again, and everything settles into place. 

With their shoulder’s touching, it almost seems like the string isn’t there.  It buzzes between their hands, pulled taut by proximity, and Wilson can’t keep the smile off his face (neither can House, if the weird looks they receive are any indication). 

Wilson unpacks his stuff from his boxes, and they don’t talk about why the boxes were packed in the first place. House sits on his couch and stubbornly refuses to help with the unpacking, and they don’t talk about why he’s sitting in Wilson’s office when he should be in the clinic. House catches his hand as Wilson passes him, and they don’t talk about it when House runs his thumb over Wilson’s circle of their string. Wilson kisses House goodbye, and they don’t talk about it when House uses his cane to stop Wilson leaving him behind without one more peck. 

It’s funny, because Wilson can’t stop smiling to himself. Him and House! Soulmates! It’s funny, because everyone knows, and Wilson couldn’t be happier about that. It’s funny because he’s never felt that way about anything before- even wedding rings. 

He never noticed just how many strings there are, weaving around the hospital. They weave between patients and doctors and visitors, always lining the hallways and always easily able to be passed through. Maybe it’s something about having a soulmate that makes the strings so much more visible, because before, he could’ve sworn he never took notice of just how many there really were. And one of them, in the bundle of strings that weave around hospital floors, links him right back to House. 

-

Cuddy gives him a double take when she sees him and House on their way back after lunch. As usual, Wilson’s paid, and House has found another way to smuggle out a packet of crisps without either of them paying for it. Wilson stays back for half a step, and it’s like Cuddy’s gaze lazer-focuses in on the string connecting their hands together. 

“Here comes trouble,” House remarks, watching Cuddy stalk over to them, but neither make an attempt to move. “Quick, make out with me. Maybe we’ll scare her off.” 

“I’m not making out with you at work, House,” Wilson answers. “Some of my patients are in that cafeteria.” 

“And? I’m pretty sure you-” House begins, but stops when Cuddy crosses her arms and comes to a halt in front of them. 

“Anything you want to tell me, House?” Cuddy asks, and she’s smiling like this is good news, but standing like it’s pissed her off. “Like maybe how you’re ordering unnecessary tests for clinic patients?” 

“Did I do that? Oops. You know me, the worst doctor ever!” House replies, animated as always. “Maybe I should stop-” 

“No,” Cuddy says. “Don’t even finish the sentence. Just stop ordering unnecessary tests, alright?” 

“But mom , I’ve got a soulmate now! How am I ever meant to form a meaningful bond with him if I’m always in the clinic?” House remarks, putting on that fake pout as he tugs Wilson’s hand up to show off their string. Wilson smiles despite himself. “Surely you wouldn’t be heartless enough to force me apart from my one true love!” 

“It’s only a couple of hours. And as far as I’m concerned, you’ve had plenty of time to form a meaningful bond, considering you and Wilson have been friends longer than he’s been at this hospital,” Cuddy responds. House pouts some more, and Cuddy uncrosses her arms, softening as she turns to Wilson. She says, plain and simple, “Congratulations, and… Good luck.”

“Hey! That’s rude! If anything, I should get the good luck- I’m the one who’s stuck in the clinic with morons for two hours!” House proclaims, watching Cuddy turn and leave. When they drop their hands again, House grabs Wilson’s, and they spend the rest of the brief walk holding hands. 

He doesn’t need good luck, he thinks. Good luck never did much for him before. 

-

“I’m sorry,” He tells Kate’s father around lunch that day. So much for being happy. “She has a day or two, at most. It’s probably best that you start saying your goodbyes, if you haven’t already.” 

“You’d think we were ready,” He says. “You’d think…”

“Dying isn’t easy on anyone. Especially the family,” Wilson continues. It’s like muscle memory, comforting people, and it’s easy to flex the muscle to fit this situation because- despite the young girl being amazing and unique - this is pretty common. Kate’s dad turns his head towards her bed, nodding, and Wilson feels tempted to say something more. “I-“ 

He’s suddenly pulled in the direction of the hallway, falling before he can regain his balance. “Sorry about that,” He mumbles, brushing himself down. “It’s, uh, probably-“ 

“Your soulmate, I get it,” Kate’s dad answers, wiggling his own finger. He laughs, “Try having two.”

This time, when House pulls on their string, Wilson pulls back. He stubbornly refuses to fall, and he definitely refuses to give into House’s stubborn ‘give me attention ’ mood that he’s had all day. So he pulls back when House tugs their string, trying his best to offer comfort, before Kate’s dad says, “Look, I won’t blame you if you want to go. It’s best that I spend my time by her bed now, anyway.” 

“Right,” Wilson says. House, stubbornly, pulls on the string one last time. Clearing his throat, Wilson continues, “Yes- that’s… uh, makes sense. I’ll come by to check up later?” 

Kate’s dad gives him a farewell nod. “Take your time, Doctor Wilson. Thank you for all you’ve done.” 

-

“House,” he says, standing with his arms crossed by the door of House’s little diagnostic room. His ducklings are all sat head-down in books, House scribbling down on his whiteboard, as Wilson says, “I was with a patient. What did you need?”

House looks at him, standing in the doorway, and nods. “Nothing.” 

“What- House! You can’t just fling me to the ground over nothing!”  He throws his hands up, watching the string loosely follow the action in waves. House shrugs at him, turning back to his team as if to say something, but Wilson gets there first. “House. I’m being serious.”

“So am I, Jimmy,” House answers, swinging back to face him. “Go back to playing hero. Now, as I was saying- differentials, people! What can cause-“

He goes flying to the ground, tipping away from his cane and falling, completely unharmed, to the ground. 

“Oops,” Wilson says, but he’s smiling. House is too. “See you for lunch, House-“

“You two are soulmates?” Taub asks, putting his book down and watching as both Thirteen and Chase pull their heads up to follow House’s string until it links back to Wilson. “But- what- how ?” 

“It’s a mystery,” House says, using his cane and the tabe to get up, glaring at Wilson (and being betrayed by the soft, fond smile on his lips). “Now, can we get over the fact that the universe has pre-assigned me a best friend for life and he also just happens to be my previous best friend and skip back to the patient who is dying? ” 

“Congrats mate,” Chase says, nodding to Wilson. He isn’t going to question why Chase is sitting in House’s diagnostic room despite being a surgeon. Somehow, he doesn’t know if it’s sarcastic or not. “Always figured you two’d end up together somehow.” 

“You did not,” House proclaims, twisting away from the whiteboard to glare at Chase. 

“Foreman and I figured there was probably some merit to it when House took a cancer patient case just ‘cause you asked,” Chase shrugs. From his place in a chair closest to the door, Foreman nods along to Chase’s statement. “That’s pretty much the same thing.” 

“Oh, shut up. Wilson, get out. Clearly your dashing good looks and sudden unavailability is too much for the children to handle,” House declares, turning back to the board and going into what Wilson thoroughly believes is his ‘ thinking pose’ . 

“Good luck, Wilson. Can’t understand how you can handle him,” Foreman adds as Wilson is on his way out, as House tells them- again- to get back to the diagnosis. 

-

He’s just finished checking in on a patient when Cameron catches him. And he definitely isn’t worried about what she’s going to say about the whole ‘being House’s soulmate’ thing, but he also definitely isn’t not worried. He’s… nervous. Cameron has loved House- even if it hasn’t been romantic or reciprocated- pretty much since the day he begrudgingly earned her respect by saving a patient no one else would. In her eyes, as House has often expressed, He’s a miserable hero who only she can save or understand. 

Wilson likes to think that Cameron has moved on from that view, now that she’s married (and not working for House), but he can’t help but wonder. Especially now that she’s cornered him outside a patient’s office. 

“Doctor Wilson,” She says, and Wilson does a little nod in response. “I just wanted to say thank you for taking on Lily- the hanahaki patient- seriously, I could tell it did her a lot in the end to have someone to talk to.” 

Ah. Hmm. That’s… It’s not that Wilson was avoiding thinking about Lily, it’s more that he… tried not to. He walked past what used to be her room just fine, though his wrist felt weird and itchy and his chest felt all tied up, and he’d figured everything had just moved on. No need to address the whole ‘getting hanahaki from a hallucinating patient and nearly dying’ thing. 

“No problem,” He says, forcing a smile. Even with his stomach dropping and his chest, once again, feeling like there are petals trying to claw their way up and out of him, he does his best to be nice- because this is Cameron, and all she’s doing is thanking him, and she doesn’t know he’d had hanahaki. Subconsciously, he runs his thumb along his soulmate band and tugs a little at it, to make sure it’s still there. 

“She wanted me to thank you,” Cameron continues. Internally, Wilson winces. Outwardly, he drops the smile down like he would any other time. Right. She’d died without him here- and he’d been busy dying for nothing. Lovely. “You really did a lot for her. I didn’t- well, you must have some really good bedside manner, is what I’m trying to say. She seemed to really appreciate it, and even though you weren’t there at the end, I don’t think she felt like you’d done any less for her.” 

“That’s… good to know,” Wilson answers. He clears his throat, and tells himself to deal with the conversation and move on. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. Thank you for… taking over for me, I guess. I’m glad she had someone who cared by her side.” 

Cameron smiles. “So am I,” She says, and then she seems to notice the band on Wilson’s finger. “Chase told me about you and House- I’m happy you two found each other. Even though I have no clue how it happened or even if I want to know how it happened, I’m happy for you both. Chase and I both are.” 

God, Wilson is eating up these ‘congrats you got a soulmate’ talks today. It feels… good. Nice, even, to be seen as House’s lifelong best friend bound by the universe, despite it feeling a little weird in a new way, and even if it doesn’t change much at all. 

“Thanks, Cameron,” He says, and mentally apologizes for that comment he made in his head ages ago about her and Chase. Soulmates or not, they’re good for each other. “It’s… Yeah, thanks. I appreciate it. And I appreciate you taking care of Lily while I was gone, too.” 

-

“You called?” House asks, standing in the middle of his office and snorting when Wilson startles and hits himself in the head with the door. 

“What the- House, you can’t just- What are you even doing here?” Wilson asks, rubbing his head, as he shuts the door. Without even thinking, Wilson finds himself moving to give House a kiss on the cheek before he settles at his desk.

“You tugged,” House answers, raising his left hand. “Figured I should be a good little soulmate and find out why.” 

“I did?” Wilson asks, pausing before he can open his laptop. He stares down at his left hand, following the string once more, and shakes his head, “I didn’t mean to. Cameron cornered me about the Hanahaki patient, Lily- I probably just fiddled with it and accidentally got it stuck on another finger or something.” 

House hums. “And did Cameron say anything about the obvious little red string?” 

“Well, yeah,” Wilson answers. He drops his hands, deciding that as long as House is in his office, he’s probably not going to get much done. “She was nice about it- she congratulated me. That wasn’t really the focus of the conversation, though.”

“She didn’t mention at all how weird it is that you suddenly developed a string connecting to someone who got theirs before you?” House asks, pacing, the repetitive tap of his cane echoing through the room. “Which it is, by the way. It’s normal to develop a soulmate later in life- that stuff happens all the time. But to develop a soulmate bond after your soulmate does, and after you get Hanahaki, that’s-”

“Weird,” Wilson finishes. House nods, pausing by the couch, pushing his weight onto his cane. “She didn’t really comment on that. No one, uh… no one else knows I had Hanahaki, either. Just you.” 

“We should test you,” House says. “You could still be infectious.” 

“It’s unlikely, but… yeah. I’ll test myself this afternoon,” Wilson answers. “Why the sudden fascination in my Hanahaki? You didn’t bring it up at all this morning, and you didn’t even mention it during lunch, or afterwards-” 

“Well, I’m concerned . Shoot me for being such a caring partner, why don’t you,” House says, holding Wilson’s gaze. He only breaks away when Wilson gives him his best ‘ elaborate ’ look. “I just don’t- I don’t understand how. Not that I’m not grateful my presence in your life has stopped you dying, but it’s… I don’t…” 

This is it, Wilson thinks. This is where they talk about everything that’s happened and Wilson nearly dying and House admits that he’s only here because he can’t stand to lose Wilson as a friend , and that he doesn’t really want to be soulmates who kiss at all. This is the part where Wilson loses his best friend because he’s been selfish enough to think his best friend wanted him at all. 

House blows out a breath, staring out Wilson’s mirror and into the town. It’s a sunny day, Wilson notes. It’s been raining for a while and now, it’s sunny. What a terrible day for things like this to happen. “I don’t want this to be fake,” House says, like it pains him to say, and Wilson catches sight of him running his thumb over his soulmate band. “I don’t know how you were cured of Hanahaki. I have theories, but I… I’ll never know for certain . What if I wake up one day and you relapse? I… I need you, Wilson.” 

Oh. In some ways, Wilson didn’t… expect that. 

He stands, and he moves to sit beside House, and he doesn’t touch but in a lot of ways he wishes he could. He knows House, and he knows House doesn’t like to be held or kissed when he’s being vulnerable, so he keeps his hands to himself. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Wilson says. When House still doesn’t take his gaze from the outside world, Wilson gathers the strength to take hold of his left hand, cradling it between his own. House still doesn’t move. Alright, he’ll try the diagnostics route. “What do you think happened?” 

“I think what happened is,” House continues, because House hates ending with statements like that, “For whatever reason, your little red string that ties you to me was … suppressed. Like it was for me, initially,. Maybe you were meant to develop it when I did and you didn’t, because you weren’t ready, or something like that. Then along comes Hanahaki, which we know has ties to the little red string, and even though it takes a while, because you haven’t manifested a soulmate your little red string fights back and… wins. It gets to manifest. Suddenly, that nasty Hanahaki doesn’t have anywhere to live, and so you’re cured.” 

“But then why didn’t both of us get Hanahaki?” Wilson asks. “Like normal soulmates?” 

House snorts, turning to look at him, and his eyes are electric . Feeling, soft, but electric nonetheless. Wilson wants to kiss him silly. “We’re not normal. We’re an anomaly,” House answers. “ You’re an anomaly. It’s what makes you so… interesting . You should have given up on me ages ago, but you haven’t. If the string represents the bond then it makes sense that it’s an anomaly, too.” 

“And you’re okay with that?” Wilson asks. House’s hand feels so warm clasped between his own. 

“Yeah,” House says. “I am. Just don’t give up on me.”