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House hadn’t left his apartment in days. He hadn’t left his room in days, for that matter- he couldn't allow himself even that. He knew that his self-loathing was stupid, he knew that shutting himself in wasn’t doing anything good, it wasn't productive. Even in his self-pity, he couldn’t be productive, and that just made him sink deeper into the floor.
He barely even remembered now, what caused all this, it all blurred together. In the faint whispers of his memory, he recalled a patient dying– his fault. Get up and do your usual routine, he tries to will himself into doing something, anything. Go to work, and deal with this the way you always do. Push everyone away, and make them hate you.
It becomes easier to hate yourself when the world burns its hatred into you. What was once a conscious and careful process in his cycle of self-destruction, became second nature to him now. Making people work the excruciating process of self-loathing for him.
There was a knock at the door.
Vaguely he recalled, hours ago, when he ignored the stubborn rings on his phone. Vaguely, he recalled, days ago, back at the hospital, Wilson’s look of concern scrunched up in his eyebrows, his eyes burning into him. He didn’t need to look back to know that Wilson was already thinking of how to approach and comfort him. So he left and hadn’t gone back to work since.
House hated that. He hated that Wilson cared. He hated how Wilson’s care was unconditional. He hated how Wilson made him feel loved. Made him feel human. A pleasant feeling, knowing he was loved. A painful feeling, thoughts flaring up- you don’t deserve it.
It was always about deserving.
This mindset made it easier for him to accept the chronic pain, at least. He deserved that. But he didn't accept the care people occasionally offered. He’d done nothing good to deserve it. Nothing right. Everything he did, down to his work– his obsession with solving cases with efficiency, came down to that. He forced himself into doing something good, doing something right, doing something that might someday give him absolution- freedom- from his wrongs.
The knock came again, accompanied this time by an ever-so-familiar voice. “House,” You don’t deserve it. “Can I come in?”
He wanted to let him in, to let him worry, to allow himself to be loved, to be cared for. You don’t deserve it. He also wanted to push him away, to force himself to go through it alone. “House?” You don’t deserve it. “I’m worried.” He shouldn’t be. “I’m coming in.”
House wanted to say something, maybe in protest, maybe inviting him in. He couldn’t decide, so he shut his eyes and pushed his voice back into his mind, hoping that he could sink further into the floor than physically possible, hoping he could just- disappear- as easy as that, hoping-
The locks click open, and House registers this as his cue to pick himself off the ground. Maybe, he hoped, if he looked less pathetic, Wilson wouldn’t worry too much.
He hears his room door click open, and his defence mechanisms lock up. He couldn’t let himself be loved.
“You’re not the hooker I called for,” he didn't look up to face Wilson. He didn’t have to, he could sense that Wilson was already analyzing him despite his attempts at deflecting.
"House,” there was a pause, and he could hear all the words Wilson left unsaid in the silence, are you okay? Have you eaten? Had any water? Can I stay?
Wilson slowly made his way into the room, and House’s stature shrunk on instinct, some kind of rejection, some kind of acceptance, paralysed with indecision.
On one hand, he wanted to be held. He wanted, no- needed, to be cared for, to be not alone.
On the other, he was scared shitless of being vulnerable. Terrified of what might happen, if he let himself trust, if he let himself feel safe.
Wilson sat himself down next to House. You don’t deserve it. The broken record went off again somewhere in the back of his brain. “Go away.”
“You have a choice, House. If my presence here is making you feel worse, if it’s what's making you feel bad, just tell me. And I'll be on my way, I promise.” Wilson wanted to care for House, and it hurt to see him wrecking his own life. “But if you’re pushing me away out of self-depreciation, if you're doing this to make yourself feel worse, on purpose or not- then let me stay.”
Even now, even here, when House was doing everything he could to leave everyone out of his life, Wilson was next to him. “Why do you care?”
“Because we’re… friends.” Friends. He winces at the word. Years now, they danced this strange line of love, back and forth between platonic, and romantic, neither of them quite sure where the dance would take them, where they wanted to take it. But what mattered was that there was love, platonic or otherwise, so they would keep at the dance for as long as the music went on.
Wilson took a sharp inhale. “Because we understand each other, House. You’re my other half, you complete me, and I am a better, happier person for having known you.And when you click with someone that well, you love them. And we clicked.”
House shuddered, words rolling into his mind, unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. Wilson continued. “And with love comes the desire to care for and protect the other person.”
A million different thoughts fire in his head, buzzing like electricity going into overdrive, House was doing everything he can to process what’s been said, trying his hardest to listen to the subtext, straining his ears to keep track of what Wilson’s spoken, what’s held back. He peels his eyes open, finally, after what feels like too long and yet not enough.
His thoughts flutter like butterflies- too fast, too erratic for him to hold onto for a reasonable amount of time, so he lets go. “I’m tired, Wilson.”
Wilson felt the butterflies flutter away, and acknowledged them, “Do you want to talk about it?” He always liked butterflies, wanting to see them clearer, wanting to know House’s thoughts better- but he didn’t want to push the matter, didn’t want to overstep. And even though House knew, somewhere deep down, that he could trust Wilson, it didn't stop his instincts from grappling everything down like a net, catching butterflies, keeping them from flying too far, from flying to safety, from flying to Wilson.
“... Not today.” He huffs out, expecting Wilson to turn away in disappointment, but he just nods. “But someday, eventually.”
Even knowing that House was willing to eventually trust him someday was enough for Wilson.
And knowing that Wilson would always be there for him was more than enough for House.