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“Home sweet home!” House announced as he unlocked the motel door. Wilson—busy holding their duffel bags and shielding himself from the rain—was not amused by House’s theatrics.
“Just open the door before the rain soaks me,” Wilson grumbled.
House clicked his tongue. “Patience, patience.”
The door swung open with a harsh creak, revealing the worn-down motel room. There were two queen-sized beds, both fitted with questionably-stained sheets. A small television with an antenna sat atop a dresser. To the right of the door was a circular table, barely large enough for one person to eat on.
Wilson raised his eyebrows. “Well,” he said, “the beige walls really compliment the crappy patchwork quilts. And it smells like mothballs.”
“What did you expect to find?” House questioned, taking a cautious step inside. He flicked on the light switch. It barely made a difference. “It was under a hundred bucks, and we’re half an hour from Baltimore. It beats sleeping in an abandoned parking lot.”
“At least a parking lot wouldn’t have bed bugs,” Wilson retorted, following behind House. He shut the door, the door frame rattling from the pressure.
“Ah!” House exclaimed. “They’ve got a TV!”
Wilson set their duffle bags on the chair that accompanied the table. “I’m stunned. We have a TV,” he deadpanned.
House eased onto one of the queen-sized beds, carefully elevating his thigh with both hands. His most recent Vicodin dose was still holding strong; he barely felt his thigh when he moved it. He reached to the bedside table for the remote control, immediately turning the TV on and scrolling through the channels. Nothing seemed to catch his interest—college football, cooking competitions, children’s cartoons, nothing.
Wilson groaned as he fussed over their luggage. “Can you please turn the volume down?” he requested, pinching the bridge of his nose.
House furrowed his eyebrows, taking note of Wilson’s unpleasant attitude. He turned the volume up by two notches.
“House,” Wilson warned. “Don’t test me.”
House turned the volume down low, almost to mute. He settled on a home renovation show, something mundane and mindless enough to entertain him. Wilson shed his leather jacket and draped it atop their bags. He shuffled towards the other bed, sighing deeply with contentment when he relaxed against the pillows.
House glanced over to study Wilson. Wilson’s eyes squeezed shut, his fingers massaging his temples. A part of House suddenly felt bad for messing with him. “What’s got you in a frenzy?” House questioned, averting his gaze.
House could feel Wilson’s side-eyed glare without seeing it. “My head hurts,” was all Wilson said. The conversation died there.
House and Wilson sat in silence, only half-watching the TV. The couple on the show had just gotten a call about an unexpected extra task for their home renovation project. Wilson always loved to jump at the opportunity to laugh about it, to comment about how scripted these shows are. House always, jokingly, advocated that it was authentic. It was their banter, their usual back-and-forth faux bickering.
But Wilson didn’t say a word. House couldn’t keep his curiosity at bay.
“When did you get a headache?” House innocently inquired.
“When I smelled the lobby of this building. It’s enough to make someone sick,” Wilson quipped in a deadpan tone. “I don’t know why you chose this motel, House. There’s a Hilton three blocks away. We could be staying comfortably over there.”
“And spend a hundred extra dollars? I’m appalled at your lack of financial know-how,” House sarcastically retorted. “This place has charm if you don’t mind a few bed bugs.” In his peripheral vision, House saw Wilson cringe and shiver at the mere notion of bed bugs.
“I’m not letting you pick the next hotel,” Wilson vowed. “I’m not living in crappy motels for the next few months.”
“Fine, fine,” House agreed. “Enjoy cuddling with your creepy-crawly bunkmates tonight.”
“You’re the worst.”
“I know.”
Soft ambiance from the television filled the room; both men fell silent. Wilson crossed his arms, his fluffy chestnut-toned hair falling in loose strands over his forehead as it dried from the rain. Without the copious hair products keeping his appearance strict and presentable, Wilson almost looked younger and more relaxed. It was a side of his personality that few were fortunate enough to see—a side that Wilson was hesitant to show. Wilson’s appearance served as an asset. He could control how colleagues and peers perceived him. House had seen Wilson work for hours in front of a bathroom mirror, deciding what his image would be. The shirt buttons always went up to the collar, and a matching tie rested at the perfect length above his belt. Wilson always bought expensive cologne, saying it was worth the investment. His shoes were buffed and shiny, his watch polished. And he put enough product in his hair that it could stand upright with no assistance.
Even on his days off, Wilson kept up with his image. He wore his cleanest tennis shoes and his pricier pairs of jeans. Wilson loved his sweatshirt from McGill but wearing it served two motives: comfort and impression. House didn’t know if Wilson did it intentionally, but he recalled being quite impressed with Wilson when he wore that sweatshirt during their first meeting. And even on his days off, Wilson’s hair was so styled with product that a comb would have trouble going through.
But rarely did someone get to see Wilson in his relaxed, vulnerable state. His clothes weren’t fancy; he wore a tattered concert shirt and jeans with several holes. His hair was fluffed in all directions, free from the constraints of hair gel. There was no expensive watch on his wrist. He smelled not of cologne but of gasoline and pine trees.
House saw this side of Wilson frequently. He saw Wilson relax completely, not worrying about impressions or maintaining appearances. To House, this was Wilson’s most authentic side. Forget the expensive products; Wilson was comfortable, despite his irritability towards House. But given the day—more like month—the two men had had, any positive emotion was a good one.
House idly wondered how often Wilson’s ex-wives had seen him like this. What did it say about him that he didn’t believe they saw the side of Wilson he did?
Wilson ran a hand through his hair. “We should eat soon.”
“We just sat down,” House protested.
“Yeah, that’s why I said soon.”
“Aren’t we feisty today,” House commented. “What’re you hungry for?”
Wilson shrugged. “Anything’s good. I don’t know what’s around.”
“Chinese food is always a hit.”
“We’ll get that then.”
House furrowed his eyebrows. “That was quick,” he mumbled to himself.
Wilson sighed deeply, his breath coming out shaky. “House, I’m not in the mood for your comments. Not tonight.”
House averted his gaze, his sights set on the television. He said nothing more.
Minutes passed by slowly, marked by commercials and mindless television. Wilson didn’t say anything after telling House to stop, but he occasionally shifted and put pressure on his temples. His headache must really be hurting him, House figured. Wilson’s curt tone was enough to convey the message that he was hurting. House may have the reputation of a jerk, but Wilson softened him up. He wouldn’t go as far as to wound him deeper.
But House had to break their silence. His stomach was growling from hunger.
“I’m calling the Chinese food place,” House muttered, more as a confirmation for himself rather than a statement. “Do you know where the phone book is?”
Wilson only nodded, pointing to the space underneath the bedside table.
House ordered their food from memory, an order they put in weekly for over a decade. House was a man of routines, and he was stubborn to change them. The schedule he and Wilson had established was a pillar of House’s life, something to rely on no matter the situation. During the worst parts of House’s recovery from his infarction, Wilson always brought the same Chinese food order, complete with a rented DVD copy of whatever movie they both wanted to watch. And when Wilson stayed over amid his numerous divorces, House ensured he had warm noodles to eat when he arrived home.
House knew that this routine would be one of many things they’d have to give up while on the road. He made sure to savor it while he could.
“Food’s here!” House announced half an hour later when a knock on the door interrupted their silent TV viewing.
Wilson stood before House had a chance to. “I’ve got it. Where’s the money?”
“I put some in the outside pocket of my bag,” House said. Wilson stretched his arms high above his head, leisurely walking to the door. He rummaged in House’s bag for the cash and unlocked the door to receive their food.
“Alright,” Wilson said, plastic bag in hand, “Are we eating on the beds?”
House shrugged. “I don’t see why not. It’s not like this place can get any more weird stains.”
The styrofoam containers were balanced carefully on the beds. House and Wilson ate their food hunched over slightly, taking heed to keep sauces from dripping or grease from staining. Neither man spoke; House avoided his habit of eating obnoxiously loud around Wilson. It didn’t seem like the right time to joke.
Even after finishing and cleaning up his food, Wilson was quiet. Too quiet for comfort. He was always the more introverted and tame of the pair, but this was a new level. Wilson always made some quip, like a jab at whatever bad action film they were watching or a question that had come to his mind. To see him sit in silence felt, at best, unnatural. At worst, it transported House back to Wilson’s grieving period after the bus crash, where he talked to neither House nor anyone else. Those memories were far from delightful and not what House wanted to remind himself of during their first night away from New Jersey.
“What’s on your mind?” House tried, closing his container of noodles. He set it on the bedside table. “You’re awfully quiet tonight.”
Wilson sighed. His sigh carried a weight to it, almost wordlessly summarizing his feelings. “I’m just lost in thought,” he said. “That’s all.”
“Do you want to elaborate?” House asked. Realizing how forward he’d sounded, he countered by saying, “It’s freaky watching you stare silently at the TV. I feel like you’re about to tell me that a poltergeist is here.”
Wilson cracked a small smile, subtle but amused. “Nothing of that sort,” he joked. “I’ve got a lot on my mind for— well, obvious reasons. And I won’t lie, staying the night here isn’t how I thought our first night would go.”
“You said the motel was fine.”
“No, it is fine!” Wilson hesitated, looking at the strangely-stained comforter beneath him. “Maybe ‘fine’ is a strong word. No, what I mean is that I’m fine with motels. It’s just— I’m not sure how to describe it. I’m just now realizing that I have no plan. I have no idea what I’m getting myself into.”
House shrugged. “Well, that’s an easy fix. We make a plan.”
“There’s more to it than that, House.”
“Sure, but it’s the first step. What do you want to do tomorrow?”
Wilson crossed his arms over his chest. “I guess we should keep driving for a bit,” he pondered. “We should go to Baltimore. We can get a hotel there for a day or two. I’ve never been there unless I had a conference, so I’d like to see more of the city.”
House clapped his hands. “See! A plan!”
“We’ll have to plan bigger—”
“But not yet,” House interrupted. “One step at a time.”
“House, we have no idea what we’re doing.”
House locked eyes with Wilson. Wilson looked at House with intent, his eyebrows furrowed and the lines on his face conveying his exhaustion and worry. Seeing Wilson upset with worry wasn't a new sight to House—he was usually the one who caused it—but it didn’t mean it hurt any less. The last thing he wanted Wilson to do during these last few months was fret over things that he shouldn’t.
“Nobody knows what they’re doing,” countered House. “That’s why we’ll figure it out. Having no plan hasn’t stopped us before, and I’ll be damned if it stops us now.”
“This isn’t just some vacation, House,” Wilson replied, his words sharp, “We left our lives behind! And I’m worried about that! I mean— what if something goes wrong? We run out of money or I get sicker and can’t travel or you get found out. We have no plan. We’re at a motel in an unfamiliar state with no clue what we’ll do tomorrow.”
House stilled, keeping his mouth tightly shut. In his days at Mayfield, Nolan had instructed him to think before speaking. House initially rolled his eyes, deeming the task borderline impossible. He couldn’t always be expected to take a moment and breathe, as Nolan had suggested. Life moved too fast for that, or so House thought. But now, he simultaneously had all of the time in the world and none at all. House took a deep breath in and out, mulling over Wilson’s comments.
“Look, you’re right,” House said, addressing Wilson directly. “We can’t figure everything out right now. But we know what we’ll do tomorrow. That’s what matters. You’re out here to forget about everything. Leave the important stuff to me.”
Wilson raised an eyebrow. “What if we run out of money?”
“You were a single oncologist with no kids, and the most money you spent was on a stupid theatre poster and family lawyers, plus you split the rent with me. Trust me, money isn’t an issue.”
“Just go with the scenario,” Wilson urged.
House sat a little straighter. “Fine. If we ran out of money, I’d work whatever minimum-wage job I can get. I’d beg on the street. I’d sneak us into the conference room of a fancy hotel so we’d have a roof. No matter what, we’d find a way to be taken care of.”
Wilson didn’t seem amused. “I’ll choose to ignore the illegality of some of those claims. God knows you’re not in deep enough trouble already.”
And in a flash, the puzzle pieces clicked in House’s mind. “Oh, so that’s what this is about,” he said, his voice gravelly. “This is about my ‘death.’”
“You said you didn’t want me to die and leave you alone. Did you ever even think about how I’ve felt when you’ve put yourself on the brink? Do you know what went through my head when you electrocuted yourself, accidentally overdosed, or sat in a burning building?” Wilson gave an exasperated sigh; House couldn’t blame him. He’d brought all of this upon himself. “House, you faked your death,” Wilson continued, “What’s going to happen if you get discovered? You’ll be in jail for years ! I’d be in jail as an accomplice!”
Embers burned in Wilson’s eyes, serving as a red-hot reminder to House that he better tread carefully and answer honestly.
“Wilson, I’m not going to get found out,” House insisted, leaning forward to meet Wilson’s eye level. “This isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve got enough fake names prepared in my head to name the population of Baltimore. We’re off the grid! And I’ve bailed you out of jail before.”
Wilson didn’t seem entirely convinced, but his posture softened, and he broke eye contact with House. Wilson fidgeted with the hem of his shirt and bit his lip. House watched on with a feeling of loss, not knowing how to get Wilson to ease up or talk. House couldn’t shake the feeling that Wilson wanted to say so much more, that House had only seen the surface of the iceberg. But House knew to approach things delicately, lest Wilson retreat into his shell.
“What’s this about, Wilson?” House asked, keeping his tone as soft as he could.
“I told you—”
“What is this really about?” House tilted his head. “I know you’re not telling me something.”
Wilson didn’t look up or quit his idle fidgeting. He spoke clearly, his voice never shaking, “You’re going to have to watch me die.”
The words sent a stake through House’s heart, crushing it into a thousand pieces. House inhaled sharply, surprised by Wilson’s words. Reality hadn’t crossed House’s mind much. He supposed that it should, especially in their situation, but a lot of the reality wasn’t a current problem. Wilson’s health wouldn’t be a concern for several more months—House held out hope that it may never be a concern—so House didn’t worry himself over those details. It was another bridge they’d cross when they got there.
But the thought of Wilson’s death was impossible to bear. Eventually, House knew that Wilson’s pain medicine wouldn’t be enough. House would have to find him something stronger. They’d have to stay a few extra days wherever they were staying so that Wilson could gather the strength to travel. House would be there for the worst of it, offering Wilson the same care and compassion he’d shown him every day since his infarction. And one day, when neither expect it, Wilson would pass away. House would be alone, utterly desolate.
“Not yet,” House mumbled. “Not yet. That’s a while away.”
“House,” Wilson said sympathetically. “We can’t run from reality.”
“Why can’t we?”
“Because it’s going to happen. And believe me, I’m as frightened as I know you are. I’m more frightened. But I’m more concerned about you.”
House clicked his tongue. “You don’t have to be.”
“Yes, I do,” countered Wilson. “I’ve seen you through a lot. You’ve run away from every person that could help you when I’m gone. What’re you going to do?”
“Can we not talk about this? This isn’t a concern right now.”
“House—“
“I said no,” House said firmly. He met Wilson’s gaze. Wilson looked like he was hiding his despair, keeping it quiet so as not to pressure House. It sent a pang through House’s heart, giving him a sudden rush of guilt. “I’m sorry,” House mumbled.
“No, I’m sorry,” said Wilson, returning to his anxious fidgeting. “You’re right. I shouldn’t think about this yet.”
‘You’re valid in thinking about it. You have a right to be scared.”
“But that’s not worth talking about right now. It’s too soon to be scared.”
House couldn’t find the words to reply. He leaned against the headboard, stretching his bad leg across the bed. The television still idly played a home renovation show. House reached for the remote control, turning the volume up a few notches. Wilson, also not having the heart to continue the conversation, sat back to watch TV.
Several minutes of silence passed, interrupted only by the sounds of the TV. House was barely watching—the gears of his mind were turning too fast to pay attention. He suspected Wilson felt similarly. Both men had so much to say, yet neither could articulate their thoughts. So the moments ticked by, ambient noise being the only sound.
A commercial break began. The first commercial was for a local restaurant, advertising a two-for-one breakfast combo meal. House took a mental note of it for their pre-drive breakfast; the motel only provided small boxes of corn flakes in their complimentary breakfast.
The second commercial was for a travel agency. It depicted a happy couple strolling on a beach, enjoying their getaway vacation in style. Text on the screen promised that the vacation package could be booked via the company’s website. Toward the end of the advertisement, a song kicked in, playing over more stock footage.
“Enjoy yourself. It’s later than you think,
Enjoy yourself, while you’re still in the pink…”
The song filled House with an impending sense of dread. He shut his eyes as if physically blocking the memory.
With the song came the memories of the events that surrounded it. It brought House back to the celebration dinner he’d held for himself, congratulating himself on overcoming his hallucinations. But then, on the restaurant’s stage, a woman began to sing a haunting tune. Her voice was bone-chillingly familiar, sending a shiver down House’s spine. House remembered how fast he could feel his heart beat, how the rest of the patrons’ conversations faded to background noise, and how doomed he felt in the moment. On the stage, donning a doctor’s coat and standing in front of the microphone, was the hallucination of Amber that had haunted House for weeks. Her conniving grin and echoing laughs taunted House as she sang that song. Enjoy yourself. It’s later than you think.
Then came Mayfield and his Vicodin detox. Sometimes, House still felt haunted by Wilson’s worried face as he drove him to the front doors of Mayfield. He never wanted to cause Wilson any pain or concern. The next few years passed like a slow parade of hurt and anger—a doomed relationship with Cuddy, months in jail, and a relapse. And now, the cherry on top of the world’s worst cake, there was Wilson’s cancer diagnosis.
House was determined to finally do something right, something that wouldn’t hurt Wilson.
“House? Are you alright?”
Wilson’s concerned question broke through House’s internal monologue. He opened his eyes. The commercial had ended, moving on to a different advertisement. House was still in bed, safe and sound.
“Yeah,” House replied. “I just hate that song.”
Though House’s answer seemed curious, Wilson didn’t push any further. He turned his attention back to the television.
“Wilson,” House said, not diverting his gaze from the screen. “I don’t think any apology I could possibly say could excuse faking my death. But I want you to know that I didn’t mean to drag you along like that.”
“Continue,” was all that Wilson said.
House took a deep breath, crossing his arms across his chest. A part of him hoped that Nolan would be proud that he was thinking before speaking. House didn’t want to rock the boat any more than he had.
“I wanted to call you earlier,” House explained, keeping his tone level and impartial. “I didn’t mean to wait until the funeral. If everything had gone to plan, you wouldn’t have even been at that funeral. I had to ensure the plan was secure before I could contact you. The motorcycles took a while to get. I had to pack my things. Mostly, I had to make sure I wouldn’t get found out. And that took longer than I’d expected. Saying ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t cut it. But it’s true. I did something outrageously stupid, and you had to experience the fall.”
Wilson remained deathly silent for a moment, his attention never faltering from the television. House’s heartbeat was audible in his ears as he waited anxiously for Wilson’s response.
“You’re right. It was outrageously stupid,” Wilson said. His voice was slow, articulating every syllable. “You led me to believe that you had died. House, you’ll never know what went through my head in those two days.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t know the manner of your ‘death.’ Do you know how that haunted me, House? I didn’t know if you had been in that building of your own volition. I thought you went to do heroin, for God’s sake! Do you know what thoughts went through my mind that day? I watched my best friend—the only person who was there for me—die in a burning building after helping a drug-addicted patient escape the hospital.”
Wilson’s tone was growing angrier. It pained House to listen to him, but he knew this was his punishment. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“House, I needed you,” Wilson continued, “You knew I needed you. If you wanted to set up some grand and elaborate plan, you should’ve consulted me!”
“I was worried that you’d have said—”
“I would’ve said yes!” interrupted Wilson. He turned to confront House, his face conveying his desperation. Floppy bits of hair had escaped its styling product, laying atop Wilson’s forehead. His eyes were wide and furious. “I would’ve said yes,” he repeated.
House could only mutter, “Why?”
“Because, despite my moral judgments, I need you as much as you need me. I’ve covered your ass more times than I can count. I’m not stopping now. And you know what? I’d rather spend my last five months this way.” Wilson chuckled, but it turned to a wheezing cough. “Five months with you, escaping your jail time, is still better than five months under fluorescent hospital lights.”
“Next time I fake my death, I’ll consult you,” House joked, hoping it would land. To his delight, it did; Wilson gave a modest laugh.
“Good,” Wilson said. “I want to be consulted.”
“I’ll never forgive myself for causing that pain, you know that?” House confessed, his voice low and gravelly. “I’ll never forgive myself for hurting you like that. You didn’t need that. Not during your last— not right now.”
“So why did you do it?”
House didn’t have a solid answer. “Stupidity, I guess,” he said. “Impulsivity, a need for a grand gesture, not thinking before I act— just check Nolan’s notes. He’s got all of the juicy vocabulary words.”
“I had to consult Nolan, actually,” Wilson confessed. “I asked him if you’d said anything that would be cause for concern.”
“I thought he had doctor-patient confidentiality.”
“Not when someone is missing for several days,” Wilson replied with a piercing stare. “He gave me hope for a bit. He said you weren’t suicidal. So, even when that building burned, I told myself it wasn’t suicide. Not everyone was convinced of that fact, but I knew that you wouldn’t leave of your own volition. You wouldn’t leave me.”
“And you’re right,” House said, “I didn’t leave you. If Nolan had broken his confidentiality, you would’ve known my plan sooner.”
“You told him,” Wilson stated, not as a question but as a fact.
“I had to tell him. He legally couldn’t tell anyone, and I needed someone to help me plan. He tried to talk me out of it multiple times. But, eventually, he said he’d rather I spent five months with you than years in jail. I don’t know what convinced him, but he helped me figure out the logistics.”
“House, what’re you going to do when I’m gone?”
House shifted uncomfortably. “I thought we weren’t discussing your—”
“We’re not discussing my death anymore. We’re discussing your life.”
“I’m not ready to talk about it,” House said, plain and simple. “It’s the only part of the plan I haven’t worked out yet.”
“What do you think you’ll do?” Wilson inquired. “If you had to do anything.”
House hummed in thought. “Maybe I’ll go serve my jail time. God knows I’ll have years saved up at that point.”
Wilson scoffed in disbelief. “No, you won’t. You’re too stubborn.”
“Why not? It’s free room and board for at least five years. Probably ten by then.”
“You won’t want to come out of hiding. I know you. You’ll probably enjoy taking on aliases and identities.”
“Can’t deny the facts,” said House.
“Just—” Wilson leaned his head against the headboard, his gaze turned to the ceiling— “Can you promise me one thing?”
House said nothing in response, letting Wilson have the floor to talk.
“Promise me that you’ll stay alive,” Wilson muttered. “When I’m gone, stay alive.”
House had the urge to joke and somehow make light of such a heavy discussion. He knew what Wilson’s implication was. Don’t take too many pills. Don’t drive recklessly. Don’t do something stupid. Don’t end up dead.
House wished that he could promise that with complete certainty. But, like Wilson, he didn’t know how the next five months would go, much less the months following.
“I don’t think I can promise anything,” House stated. “I can’t predict that.”
Wilson looked at him with despair in his eyes, like he was moments away from tears. “Please,” he pleaded. “Let me believe that you’ll try.”
House tilted his chin downwards. He couldn’t bear to watch Wilson. “I’ll try. I’ll do my best. That’s a promise.”
Wilson took a deep breath, nodding his head. “Good,” he said simply.
“Can you promise something?” asked House, his throat tight with nerves. “Promise me that you’ll enjoy yourself? No more death talk, no more worries. Just you and me and the motorcycles.”
Wilson cracked a small smile. It made House’s heart skip a beat. “Just you and me and the motorcycles,” Wilson repeated. “I can focus on that.”
Outside of the motel, a car’s headlights shone through the window. Car doors slammed shut, and people audibly talked. A moment later, the talking moved to the other side of House and Wilson’s wall. It wasn’t loud enough to be disruptive, but it was noticeable for House to raise an eyebrow.
“Sounds like we’ve got company,” House observed.
“As long as they’re not loud, I don’t care,” said Wilson. “Just don’t disrupt them, please.”
“Why would you—“
“Don’t feign innocence. I’ve been in hotels with you before.”
House exhaled a laugh. “I’m an angel in hotels.”
“You make it your sole job to make hotel management angry at you,” Wilson argued. “At least this motel doesn’t have room service, a balcony, or a pool.”
Another haunting memory flashed in front of House’s eyes. He recalled his memory of standing on the edge of a hotel balcony, staring at the illuminated pool water below. In the gathering crowd, he spotted a familiar face: Wilson. Wilson stared at him with horror, shouting something that House couldn’t hear. House remembered taking a deep breath and leaping, feeling like he was floating before splashing in the pool. The feeling was utterly exhilarating. His heart was beating so fast that he wondered if the rest of his body could keep up with the adrenaline. But then he stuck his head above the water and caught a glimpse of Wilson’s face. Seeing the combination of anguish and worry on Wilson’s features zapped House’s feeling of weightlessness immediately. But he masked that hurt, instead partying and drinking with the rest of the hotel guests.
House knew why he’d jumped. He wanted to feel alive, wanted to make his adrenaline rush in a new way. In a way, he didn’t regret it. The daring gesture did what he needed it to do. But feeling alive shouldn’t come with a cost. Wilson’s emotions were a cost that House was tired of paying.
“I think we should go to D.C. after we’re done in Baltimore.”
House blinked, turning his attention towards Wilson. Wilson, to House’s surprise, had a smile on his face. “Why D.C?” House inquired.
Wilson shrugged. “I’ve only been once, and that was on a sixth-grade field trip. I want to see more of it. I know they have a lot of museums and historical monuments. Could be a good time.”
“D.C. it is,” said House.
“Maybe we should head south. See the rest of the coast, you know?” Wilson continued, seemingly not registering House’s comment. “There are so many cities worth visiting.”
“Now you’re in the spirit.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Wherever you want to go,” House said.
“Come on. You’ve got to have one place on your mind. It’s your trip too, House.”
House shrugged. “I don’t want to go anywhere. I’m just following you around.”
“Nowhere at all?” Wilson pressed, not buying House’s answer.
“I’m serious,” said House. “This is your trip more than mine. I’m happy with wherever you want to go.”
Wilson went quiet, looking at House with curiosity. House felt studied under his gaze, like the gears in Wilson’s mind were turning at a rapid pace. “What, do I have something on my teeth?” House joked in a deadpan tone.
“Why did you do this all for me?” Wilson questioned.
House sighed, using it as a ploy to buy more time in answering. “Because cancer’s boring,” he replied. “You need someone along with you to make it less boring.”
Wilson clicked his tongue. “I don’t buy that.”
“Well, it’s true.”
“For anyone else, it would be true. But you were running from the cops. You were trying to run from responsibility. We’ve been friends for decades, but I’d never expect you to do all this for my sake. Why did you do this all for me?”
House remembered when he first talked to Nolan about his friendship with Wilson. Nolan said nothing as House told the story of how he and Wilson first met. He only took occasional notes in his notebook, listening to House intently.
“So, you’d say you’re dependant on Wilson?” Nolan had asked.
House turned his focus to the ceiling. “Yes,” he answered. “Because he’s the only person who still puts up with me. That makes him either completely stupid or the only person on my level. Either way, I need him.”
Wilson hummed, still eyeing House and awaiting an answer to his question. House rubbed his face, exhaling strongly. “Because cancer is boring,” he repeated, “And I need you.”
“House, you can need me and still not go through all of this,” said Wilson. “Why did you fake your death for me? Why did you set up this whole trip?”
Wilson came up in every session that House had with Nolan. It wasn’t intentional; Wilson was always there in House’s stories. Nolan would tap his pen idly against his notebook, his eyes almost drooping from the boredom of hearing House tell yet another anecdote about him and Wilson.
After one particularly long session, Nolan closed his notebook, setting it aside as he leaned forward in his chair. “Have you ever considered the possibility that your relationship with Wilson may exceed that of friendship?” he asked.
House furrowed his eyebrows. “What’re you implying, doc?”
“I’m implying that you may harbor a romantic interest.”
“That’s impossible,” House scoffed.
“Is it impossible because you’re not—or don’t think you are—gay? Or because it’s Wilson?”
“It’s because this is Wilson you’re talking about,” House clarified. “Look, attraction doesn’t have limits for me, alright? I’ve always been that way. But Wilson? No. I’d know if it was something more.”
Nolan didn’t seem convinced. Truthfully, House wasn’t convinced either.
The subject of House and Wilson’s bond had been joked about for years by both them and others they knew. Some assumed they were a couple and were surprised when they weren’t. There were those who made comments about how close they were, never intending to be snide. And then there were the conversations House and Wilson had about their bond.
House remembered when, in a fit of frustration, Wilson theoretically asked why they weren’t a couple. The words rang in House’s brain for years after the interaction, purely because he hated how much sense Wilson’s reasoning made. We’ve known each other for years. We’ve put up with all kinds of crap from each other, and we keep coming back. We’re a couple.
To House, the jokes about them being in love were humorous. But every so often, the logic made a bit too much sense to him. No matter the crap House pulled, Wilson always came back. No matter how low House fell, Wilson stayed to help him get back up.
They were a couple.
“I did all this because you’ve been my friend for decades. You’re the one person in my life who has been a constant,” House told Wilson.
“Is that all?” Wilson pressed.
It wasn’t all because House vividly recalled what he told Nolan during their last phone call.
House’s last phone call to Nolan took place half an hour before House went into the building. Unlike the previous three calls—which had all regarded planning—this call was a way for House to say farewell.
“I’m going into the building in just a bit,” House told Nolan, “But I wanted to call you first.”
Nolan merely hummed, showing his attention to House’s conversation.
“Here’s your final therapy breakthrough, doc,” said House. “I know why I’m doing all of this for Wilson. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me sooner. He always jokes that we’re a couple. I think he’s right. And I think that I want to be with him.”
House could hear Nolan’s intrigued hum. “In a romantic sense?”
House nodded. “I think so, yeah. He finally wore me down,” he joked.
“What brought about this realization?”
“Terminal illness brings a lot of realizations about the things you should’ve said. I have a lot of things that I need to say.”
“And how long have you felt this way towards him?” Nolan questioned.
House smirked. “He was the most interesting person at the bar,” he said simply, “I wouldn’t have bailed him out if I didn’t find him interesting.”
To House’s surprise, Nolan chuckled. “That long, huh?”
“That long,” House repeated. “Now, it’s been fun, but I have a date with destiny to attend to.”
“I hope you remain smart about things, Gregory,” said Nolan, speaking the most genuinely House had ever heard him. “It’s been a pleasure, most of the time anyway, to be your therapist. Enjoy the next few months. Good luck.”
“It’s been a wild ride. See you on the other side.” House hung up his phone, putting it in his pocket and reminding himself not to let it burn. He’d destroy it properly after he messaged Wilson.
House knew what this charade was all about. In a way, he’d known since the day he’d met Wilson. Wilson was the only constant no matter how many people came and went in House’s life. It took the fate of death for House to realize what that role truly meant.
“You want the real truth?” House asked. Wilson stayed silent, offering House the space to talk. “I went to your car after we ate dinner that night. You were crying and asked if I’d tell you I loved you. I said I’d only tell you that if you fought.”
Wilson visibly tensed at the memory of his vulnerability. He opened his mouth to speak, but House cut him off.
“You fought all that you could,” House continued, paying no mind to Wilson trying to talk. “So I’ll tell you this. The next few months are about you. Don’t worry about anything else. We’ll travel wherever you want to go, and I won’t complain about whatever boring museums you drag me to.” House bit the inside of his cheek. “As you said at the restaurant, everything has been about me our entire lives. Your death is yours.”
Wilson stayed as still as a statue, staring wide-eyed at House. He seemed in disbelief over what he was hearing, and House couldn’t pinpoint whether that was a positive or negative thing.
“Your life had meaning,” House continued, his throat dry from nerves. “It has meaning. I wouldn’t be here without you. I’ve given you hell, and you were still there for me. I don’t think you should’ve been there all the time, not after some of the crap I pulled. But I’ll be damned if I don’t return the favor for you.” House sighed, chuckling lowly at himself. “Your life has meaning, and I do love you. You deserve to hear that at least once. God knows neither of us would be this vulnerable if the circumstances differed.”
House put his emotional barrier right back up again. He had to prepare for any reaction. But even if Wilson left, shutting the door and never looking back, House would regretfully accept it. It’s better that Wilson be happy, even if it hurts House. The destructive voice in House’s mind said that a bit of pain was deserved after everything he’d put the pair through.
Their motel room neighbors’ voices chattered on the other side of the wall. The television, untouched for a prolonged period, still droned monotonously. But House and Wilson were locked in an icy silence, both men waiting for the other to speak first.
“Maybe that’s our loss,” Wilson muttered, breaking the tense silence. “Maybe we would’ve gone through less trouble if we just…talked.”
“You can’t say that you didn’t try that,” House observed.
Wilson exhaled a laugh. “And it could’ve worked if we weren’t— if we weren’t the way we are.”
“At least you went to therapy sooner. You made an effort. I didn’t even try until I was beyond a breaking point.”
“What did you learn?” Wilson innocently asked, raising a curious eyebrow. “You took that leap, and I’m happy that you did. Did you learn anything? Did it help?”
House wondered how Wilson expected him to answer that question. Nolan helped more than House’s stubborn attitude wanted to admit. He tried to assist House in being less destructive, and for a while, it worked. But on a deeper level, Nolan helped House realize that his ultimate key to happiness was in front of him.
“I learned a lot,” admitted House. He kept his tone even, trying not to retract the emotional barrier. “Not enough to keep me out of trouble, apparently. But Nolan taught me some things I should’ve learned a lot sooner.”
“Such as?”
House shrugged nonchalantly. “Stuff about my childhood, some things about us, and definitely a thing or two about my behavior. I mean, some of that was glaringly obvious, but—”
“What did you learn about us?
House ceased his joking demeanor. Tread lightly and proceed with caution. “Just some stuff. You know, he called us an anomaly. We shouldn’t work together, but we’re still here. Isn’t that cool?”
Wilson crossed his arms. “Are you keeping something from me?”
House scoffed, trying to maintain a newfound lightheartedness. “No.”
“You’re a textbook liar.”
“Thank you.”
“House.”
House licked his lips, feeling how dry and cracked they were from the aggressive winds he faced while driving. “Why would you care if I was keeping something from you? It’s nothing that I haven’t done before,” he questioned.
“Won’t you indulge me? Doesn’t a part of you want to attempt proper communication?”
“Yes, but—” House cut himself off. “I can keep my secrets if I want to.”
“House, who do you think I’d tell?” Wilson asked theoretically, tossing his arms in the air out of frustration.
“I’ve said everything I needed to say,” House responded, growing more defensive the longer the conversation lasted. It didn’t help that his Vicodin was wearing off; the bottle was across the room, taunting him in his peripheral vision.
“You said that my life had meaning and that you loved me. Why?”
A pulse of pain shot through House’s thigh. He suppressed a groan, funneling it instead into a sharper tone. “That’s what you wanted to hear. Why did you want to hear it so badly?”
Wilson stood from his bed, slightly unsteady on his feet from sitting for so long. He stared down at House, getting more worked up as the seconds passed. “Because I needed to know!” he defended, his volume rising slightly.
“You knew that all the time!” House stood too, now face to face with Wilson. House’s leg protested, but he ignored the jolts of discomfort.
“I’m dying, House! I wanted to hear those words!”
“Why did you want me to say them? You had so much beyond me.”
“I really don’t, and you know that. I wanted to hear that you cared for me. I wanted something—anything—to tell me to keep fighting.”
“Why did you want me to say I love you, Wilson? Why not your parents, any one of your wives, a—”
“Because I needed to hear it from you! I needed to know that you love me. I wanted to know that all of these years haven’t been a waste of my time!”
“Well, I do love you!” House shouted. “I do! And maybe I wanted to hear the same thing from you! Maybe I wanted to know that everything I’ve done in the past two decades wasn’t for nothing!”
“Why didn’t you say it sooner? I would’ve said it back to you!”
“Because what if you didn’t?” House paused, breathless. “What if you didn’t say it back? What would I do then?”
“But— oh.” Wilson gasped, covering his mouth with his hand. “Oh.”
The emotional walls had fallen, and there was no cleaning up the rubble now. House’s jaw clenched, keeping himself from spilling any more information. Even the neighbors next door had ceased their conversation, no doubt alarmed by the auditory disturbance from House and Wilson’s room.
“Oh,” Wilson repeated softly. “Oh, Greg.”
House’s heart shattered as he watched the gravity of his emotions hit Wilson. House ducked his head, letting his chin fall, and his eyes averted Wilson’s stunned gaze.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Wilson asked in an unplaceable tone of voice. House kept his head hung, afraid to meet Wilson’s eyes. He couldn’t yet tell if Wilson was angry or amused.
“Because I had no reason to. I liked the way things were. It was uncomplicated,” House answered. “I don’t want to push us until we break, Wilson. We’ve always been a functioning pair. I’m the head, and you’re the heart. I destroy, and you fix. I can’t throw a wrench in the works.”
“So why say something now?”
House’s lip quivered; he bit it down. “Because cancer is a damn huge wrench. It made me think about things differently. And I almost got us both into a lot of trouble. I thought I’d tell you when— when it was closer to time. I didn’t want to fuel a fire. You already hated me enough for everything I did.”
Wilson did something that neither man had ever done, nor something either expected. He stepped forward and engulfed House in a hug.
Wilson’s arms wrapped around House’s shoulders. He buried his face in the space between his elbow and House’s shoulder. House’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he didn’t know what to do. Wilson’s grip was tight, almost to an uncomfortable degree. House hesitantly placed his arms around Wilson’s torso, resting his hands on his shoulder blades.
They stood there, chests pressed together, for many long moments. House felt warm water droplets soak his shirt sleeve; he pretended not to notice Wilson’s tears, gripping him tighter instead.
House and Wilson are many things, but physically affectionate isn’t one of them. There was never a reason why. It wasn’t their way of showing that they care for each other. Pranks, elaborate gestures, gifts of food, and faking deaths were their ways of showing care. A part of House felt strange being this close to Wilson; not since Wilson’s chemotherapy had the two been this physically close. Looking back on the memory, House figured he should’ve realized his and Wilson’s feelings sooner.
“I wish you’d told me sooner,” Wilson mumbled. “We could’ve had longer to be— well, whatever we want to be. If we want to be anything. I don’t know. Everything is so new.”
House took a deep breath. “We’ll be what we want to be. Or nothing at all. Or I can leave if you want me to. It’s your five months.”
“Why would I want you to leave?”
“I just revealed something that could break us entirely. If you don’t want to see me, I’ll understand.”
Wilson chuckled. “You’re awfully bold,” he said, “You haven’t even asked how I feel.”
House’s heart stilled, his throat going dry. With his voice raspy, he asked the question he would’ve otherwise never dared ask. “How do you feel?”
“Chemotherapy gives you time to think,” Wilson replied. “I told you then that I hoped, at that point in my life, I would’ve had a wife and kids to take care of me. And I think I believed that for a really long time.” Wilson hesitated for a moment. “But I don’t believe that anymore. I think I just need you. We’re an unlikely pair, House, but I’d rather be with you than anyone else.”
“So, what’re you saying?”
Wilson hummed, pulling away from House’s embrace. Wilson’s eyes were slightly puffy; he discreetly wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “I’m saying that I feel the same way,” Wilson confessed, “And I’m just sorry that neither of us realized it sooner. We could’ve had longer than five months together.”
“What does this all mean, Wilson?” House asked, a hint of desperation in his voice.
“It means that I’ve cared for lots of people in my life,” Wilson explained. “I mean, for God’s sake, I was married three times. I’ve had plenty of dates and partners. But— but you’re the only person I’ve ever seen myself with. I can’t explain it. Throughout all of my relationships, it’s always been you.”
A thought struck House’s mind at that moment: was Amber intentional? House had joked back then that she strikingly resembled his personality, even going as far as to tease Wilson over it. But was it such an accident? Was Wilson actually attracted to Amber because she was so similar to House?
House shook the thought from his mind. The last thing he wanted was to reminisce on the past.
“I think I’ve loved you for a stupidly long time,” Wilson confessed, adding a lighthearted chuckle.
House smirked, “It’s amazing what sitting sadly in my living room can do. That’s a pretty big realization to have.”
Wilson exhaled a laugh. “Everybody lies to others, but people lie to themselves every day. You can imagine how I felt. One second, I want to kill you, and the next—” he cut himself off.
“I have that effect.” House shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “So, why didn’t you say anything?”
Wilson shrugged. “Would you have believed me if I did?” he questioned.
“Fair point. I wouldn’t have believed myself.”
“How did you figure it out? Your feelings, I mean.”
House tilted his chin upwards. “We wouldn’t have become friends if I didn’t find you the most interesting person at the convention. It took me all these years to pinpoint why you compelled me. I think I loved you when I saw you in that jail cell. You were scruffy and pathetic looking, but you were interesting.”
“Damn,” Wilson muttered. “All these years?”
“All these years,” House confirmed. “And you?”
Wilson exhaled heavily. “I don’t know. I think I knew it in the back of my mind, but if I had to pinpoint a moment, I’d say—” he smirked— “I’d say you’ve compelled me since you came to bail me out.”
“We’ve had all of these years to be something.”
“Too bad that we’re both stubborn asses,” Wilson joked. House cracked a genuine smile.
“So, what does this make us? Where do we go from here?” House asked. It scared him to ask the question, but he’d take Wilson’s answer in stride. “What do you want us to be?”
Wilson went silent for a moment, turning his focus to the dingy carpet. He stayed that way for a bit, pondering his answer. House watched on nervously. After a moment, Wilson looked back at House. His face seemed cheerful, but House still held his breath.
“I don’t know,” Wilson began. “No relationship I’ve ever had has meant as much to me as this one.” House didn’t say a word. He stood silent, waiting for Wilson to continue.
“I’m worried about messing up what we have— what we’ve had for decades,” continued Wilson. “For so long, I thought that you can’t always get what you want. Even if I wanted something with you, I couldn’t have it. I couldn’t risk us. So now, I don’t know where to go from here. I thought I’d—” he hesitated for a beat, taking a deep breath— “I thought I’d die before telling you.”
House’s throat went dry. “I thought you’d be on your deathbed before I told you.”
“We’re awful, aren’t we?”
“We’re the bottom of the barrel.” House took a deep, soothing breath. “We don’t have to follow the rules here. We don’t have to jump into anything too quickly. We don’t have to do any of that romantic couple crap if you don’t want to. We can continue things the way they are, or we can change.”
Wilson fidgeted with his fingernail. “We have five months together,” he said slowly, “I don’t think we should waste them like we’ve wasted the past several years.”
“Elaborate.”
“We’ve done this dance for too long,” Wilson elaborated, making piercing eye contact with House. “We’ve buried ourselves in pointless endeavors because it made the truth easier to swallow. We flirted—you can’t deny that we have—and disguised it as a witty retort. You’ve broken laws for my sake. Nothing that we’ve done follows the ‘rules.’ And, damn it, five months is too short. It’s too short to waste.
“You know what I want, House? I want to not care anymore. I don’t want to worry about being vulnerable or the possibility of being hurt. I don’t want to care about how people perceive us. I don’t want to repress anything anymore. I’ve reached my point. I played my part for a long, long time. For five months, I want to do whatever the hell I want. And for years now, I’ve looked at you and wanted to say that I love you. Loving you doesn’t forgive anything that you’ve done in the past. I won’t forgive you for leading me to believe you were dead. But for five months, I want to forget Princeton exists. I want us to make new memories until I physically can’t anymore.”
Whatever walls House had built around his heart crumbled upon Wilson’s speech. All of House’s judgments and reserves were gone. House didn’t listen to his mind telling him to slow down, to think about how their friendship could be at stake. He took a step forward, putting a hand on the back of Wilson’s head, and kissed him.
The kiss was far from perfect. Wilson was caught off guard, causing him to almost fall backward from House’s sudden movement. There was a moment of careful hesitation between them, a moment where they both seemed to question if it was all real. They both smelled of gasoline and take-out food. House’s unshaven face was coarse against Wilson’s cheeks. Their kiss wasn’t graceful or picture-perfect, but it was authentically theirs.
Wilson pulled away first, breathless. He laughed as if the weight of the past several years had finally been lifted from him. “That was awful,” he chuckled.
House exhaled a laugh. “You’re a lousy kisser yourself.”
“We’ve got five months to work on it.”
“Five months,” House repeated. “I think we can work things out.”
“Where do you want to travel, House?” Wilson asked again, now expecting a legitimate answer. “It’s not just my five months. You’re along for the ride.”
House hummed. “Vegas could be fun.”
“Vegas cannot be fun. The last thing we need is for you to get cocky with your gambling.”
House gasped in feigned surprise. “What a harsh accusation!”
“It’s all based in truth,” said Wilson. “I’ve seen you at the hospital poker games.”
“Isolated incident.”
“Sure, sure.” Wilson sighed contentedly. “So, what do we do now?”
“Shower? Sleep?” House suggested, only half-joking. “We’ll get out of here early. I don’t want to spend longer here than I have to.”
“So you admit that we should’ve stayed somewhere nicer?” Wilson teased.
House snorted. “Never.”
“You’re stubborn,” Wilson said affectionately.
“Well, apparently you love it.”
“You know that I do.”
Wilson brought House closer to him, pressing his lips to his. This kiss was better than the previous one, with both men finding more comfort in each other’s embrace. House’s heart skipped a beat as he realized this is what the next five months will be like. He doesn’t have to hide anything from Wilson and doesn’t have to worry about how he’ll react. The only thing either of them has to think about is where to travel next.
The next five months will be full of uncertainty, and both men knew that. They both knew that Wilson would have his rough days and that they’d have to settle down for the final time one day. House would try to convince Wilson to take treatment. Wilson would refuse it, of course, saying that he’s accepted his fate. House hoped for a remission miracle; Wilson knew better than to hope.
But no matter what occurred, they’d always stick together. They were a duo—the oncologist and the diagnostician—but now they had the chance to start fresh.
They were James and Greg, an inseparable pair, a perfect match, and now, each other’s forever partner, until death do them part.