Work Text:
The door to House’s office opens relatively silently. It’s either Chase or Cameron. Judging by the sound the shoes make against the carpeted floor, it’s Chase. House doesn’t look up from the video he’s watching.
“C for Chase, C for ciguatera. You find out if Mr. Unconscious has a preference for seafood?”
He looks up when he receives no medical retort in response. Wilson’s standing with his hands in his pockets, wearing a scarf. The scarf that one of his patients had knitted for him in her last few months here. It looks...well, good enough for Wilson to be wearing it.
“Hey,” he says.
Wilson nods and shuts the door behind him.
House frowns when Wilson sits on the chair in front of him. He’s not had many people occupy the guest chairs in his office, mainly due to the fact that they’re the most uncomfortable ones he could find. Seventy five percent of the people who’ve sat there have been one of his ducklings going insane over some diagnosis he’s made, so it’s a bit unsettling to see Wilson sitting silently without asking him a question or saying something remarkably philosophical.
“Done for the day?” Wilson asks.
“Why, you ready to whiz me home?”
They’re supposed to go out for dinner tonight. It’s been a few weeks since they’ve gone out, and while House doesn’t mind staying at home and catching up on the latest football match going on, he does this for Wilson once in a while. Following social etiquette is not his favourite thing in the world, but if it means he gets to see a smiling and exceptionally well-dressed Wilson more often, he doesn’t mind.
“I don’t think I’m up for dinner tonight,” Wilson says.
House grimaces. “Sam’s back in town?”
Wilson rolls his eyes. “You’re not even trying to be funny.”
“You’re right. Hard to be funny when your patient has invisible tumours.” He takes a good look at Wilson. “But you’re not that bothered about missing dinner.”
“What gave it away?”
“You’re really going out with that?”
Wilson touches his scarf protectively. “My patient made this for me.”
“Yeah, I got that. I was thinking more along the lines of a wool caterpillar on your neck, but it’s fine. What really happened?”
Wilson sighs. “Erin died.”
“The cancer...mom?”
“Kid. Eight. That’s Erica you’re talking about. Erin used to sing really well.”
House winces. “Was she the one who said Chase’s accent sounded heavenly?”
There’s a small smile on Wilson’s face. “That’s the one. You remembered.”
“Only because heavenly isn’t a word eight year old kids should be knowing.” If House were a better man, he would know to at least try to say something comforting, even if he didn’t mean it. But both of them know House’s strong suit isn’t offering platitudes. “People die,” he says, trying to sound as sincere as possible. “That’s what they do. Cancer or not.”
Wilson slumps. “They don’t deserve to die so early.”
“And we can’t promise to find the cure for cancer in this lifetime, so, till then, you’re going to have to be their version of Thanatos.”
Wilson cares. That’s what he always does. House doesn’t. Not outwardly, at least. And that’s where the big difference lies. House sometimes wishes Wilson was in any field other than oncology because there are nights when Wilson comes home broken; his restless energy wiped out and replaced by utter nothingness. House can’t even do anything except hold him and hope for the next day to arrive faster.
House can’t fault him for caring, but he can’t pretend to feel the same way. “Well, one less patient to feel sad about,” he offers.
That is clearly not the right thing to say. As much as Wilson lets House’s jabs roll off his back, it strikes some nerve in him today. His nostrils flare. “I don’t know why,” he begins, pushing the chair back and standing up. “I...why do I talk about this with you when I know you’re not going to—”
“Because you want me to, Wilson. But you also know I’m not good at it, so you’re going to take what you get before you realize I’m the same old asshole I always was. Then we have a few words, and then you leave.”
House is taken aback by his own words. He’s a terrible person, he thinks, and it’s not the first time he’s had this realization. Wilson’s the one with his eyebrow raised now.
“Right. I take what I get because I’m pathetic that way. And you keep doing it because— what, you’re such a huge ass who can’t even change even when you know you’re doing something stupid?”
“Oh, I’m stupid? Pardon me for not having some humanity, I didn’t know I was an anomaly.”
Wilson huffs. “That’s not what I said. You know you’re not one. Why can’t you...” Wilson shakes his head and tries saying something, but nothing comes out. “I don’t know. I just...hoped you’d help me through this. Don’t know why, now that I think about it.”
“You should’ve gone to Cuddy then. How would the hospital run if we felt sad every time a patient died?” It’s an unfair blow. Just because House is a misanthropic bastard who works in diagnostics, it doesn’t mean Wilson doesn’t have the right to feel that way. Hell, he can’t even skip seeing his patients the way House does.
“Go ask Cameron out for dinner this time,” Wilson says, tying his scarf around his neck tightly. “Make the first move for once. See if I care.”
That is genuinely the last thing House expected to hear, but he doesn’t stop Wilson from walking out of his office and down the hallway to the lift.
Cameron walks into his office, looking between him sitting in the chair and Wilson outside. “All good?” She asks, a file in her hand.
“Never better,” House says, spinning around in his chair. “Wilson’s kind of bored of our love life, though. Asked me to ask you what your thoughts on a threesome were.”
Cameron just smiles. “That’s as likely as our patient having ciguatera. Did you come up with any other theories?”
The lights in the living room are out when House parks his bike, which means Wilson’s in the bedroom. He’s right; when he walks in, Wilson’s asleep on top of the covers, House’s dog-eared copy of Darwin’s Dangerous Idea lying propped open on his stomach. He’s bothered to change out of the suit he’d worn, but seeing him lying on the bed in his faded sweatshirt makes House feel...guilty.
He sits down next to the younger man and traces a thumb across his cheekbone. The skin there is slightly damp. House wipes away any traces of wetness he can find, which causes Wilson to slowly blink his eyes open.
“You’re home,” he says, voice hoarse and eyes struggling to adjust to the light.
“Sleep well?” House flips the big lights off and turns on the bedside lamp.
Wilson stops squinting. “Till you arrived, yes,” he replies. His sarcasm doesn’t stir anything in House.
“I’m sorry I interrupted you. Now move over, I need to sleep, too.”
Wilson shakes his head and gets up, the book falling to the floor in the process, He puts it back on the bed and gathers the blanket from his side. “I’m sleeping on the couch tonight.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” House says. “You’re not a guest in my home anymore. We got past those awkward days. We even share a bed, if you didn’t know.”
Wilson lets out a small chuckle. “House, sometimes people just want space. And sometimes you have to let them have it.”
“It’s still about the patient, right?”
Wilson waves a hand. The blanket in said hand sort of undermines the effect. “What else do you think? And no, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You’re perceptive. Saves me the need to talk. But don’t go sleep on the couch.”
“Yeah? Give me one good reason why not.”
“Because there’s no space for two on there, and as much as I love you, Wilson, you gotta remember I’m a cripple.” He’s cheating, using the l word to stop Wilson from sleeping outside.
“No, House.”
“No?”
“No. Not enough.”
House sighs and walks to where Wilson is standing. He tosses his cane in the general direction of the window and slips his hands under Wilson’s sweatshirt as unsexily as he can. “You’re freezing. Sleeping on the couch isn’t going to help you.”
Wilson shivers. “And you think you can?”
“I’m warmer than you, for starters.”
Wilson scoffs, but there’s a small smile on his face. “You’re an ass, you know that?”
House changes into his pyjamas as Wilson settles down on his side of the bed again. “They don’t call me a manipulative bastard for nothing.”
Wilson shakes his head. “House, you are...”
“Just as god made me?” He climbs back into bed.
“Inexplicably, miraculously, the only person who can deal with my neuroses. The only person I want to deal with them.” Wilson rolls to his side and throws a hand around House’s waist. House immediately wraps an arm around him. He hates seeing Wilson look so small and sad. It’s House’s job to look like that.
“You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
“You sure you want to listen?”
House snorts. “What do you want to hear?”
“The truth.”
“Well, I know exactly what you’re going to say you’re upset about, but if it helps take your mind off of it, I want to listen.”
Wilson sighs. “I don’t know what happened today.”
“It disturbed you more than normal,” House murmurs into Wilson’s hair. “How long had it been—”
“Barely two months when she came in. But it wasn’t that.”
House waits.
“It’s been the fourth death in as many weeks,” Wilson says, resting his head on House’s collarbone. “It’s...too much, even for me.”
“But you did your job. You diagnosed them, you showed them all the options they had, and you sat with them till you didn’t have to anymore. You were there, and that’s enough.”
“I just hate giving them false hope, you know? When we talk about treatments, the way their eyes light up...”
“And then they find out it’s almost always temporary.”
Wilson nods. House runs a hand up and down his strong back.
“Is it false hope if you give them even two more months of life?”
Wilson blinks rapidly. House can feel his lashes against his skin. “They come to me hoping I’m going to tell them they can live a long life after their treatment, after whatever drugs I give them. Do you know how terrible it feels when I lay the rest of their lives in front of them in terms of weeks? Or months, if they’re lucky?”
“I’m sorry,” House says. “I’m sorry I was such an ass before.”
Wilson looks up at him. The light from the lamp reflects off the still-present tears in his eyes. “Are you?”
“Yeah. It’s hardly fair when I’m not the one that sits beside people and tells them it’s going to be alright. I can’t imagine how that feels, mainly because I don’t want to. But if I died, I’d like you to break the news to me.”
Wilson lets out a sound that House parses a moment later as a choked-off sob. “House, don’t—”
“Sorry,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to Wilson’s forehead. “I’m clearly losing my funny. I’ll try to take some notes from you next time.”
Wilson smiles at him, but it’s weak. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t care about who dies,” he says, fiddling with the loose collar of House’s shirt. “I just want to know that you care about...me. When you see me like this.”
House frowns. “Of course I do. But even if I don’t mean it about your patients?”
“Even then.”
“So, Wilson, I’m sorry your patient died, and I’m sorry you’re feeling bad, would you like to reschedule dinner for next week?”
Wilson lets out a watery chuckle. “You’re halfway there. Just don’t mix dead patients with dinner.”
“Okay. Wilson, I’m sorry you’re feeling sad, do you want me to stay here till you feel better?”
Wilson presses a kiss to House’s neck. “Yes. Please.”
House holds him for a few more minutes. It’s not often that he gets to be the one comforting Wilson. He's not usually much for pacifying people, but he can’t not do it when it’s Wilson.
“Sometimes I can’t always save people,” he says, voice low to make sure Wilson doesn’t wake up in case he’s drifted off. Wilson shifts in his grip to look up at him. “Sometimes I make mistakes and they die. You know that.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Makes me feel like shit then. Sometimes I get angry family, but most of the time it’s me kicking myself for not finding out what was wrong sooner. But Cameron just has to remind me of every life I have saved. It doesn’t help all the time, but I guess it’s fine to know I’m doing something right.”
“I guess.”
House sighs. “Wilson, you deal with cancer. I can chuck a crazy range of medicine at my patients and wait for one method to stick. You have nothing except stuff that has a small chance of delaying death. Your patients don’t love you because you try to cure them. They do because you’re nice about it. You treat cancer like it’s some quest they have no choice but to undergo with you. It makes them feel not alone.”
Wilson looks up at him suspiciously. “Have you been spending time with any of my patients?”
House shudders. “No way. Cuddy tells me about them sometimes. Why do you think the ducklings use you to coerce patients’ families to sign consent forms?”
“You mean, you make the ducklings use me?”
“Tomato, tomato. It’s mostly because of your voice. And those eyes. Concerningly convincing.”
Wilson wiggles his eyebrows. “You saying you fancy me, House?”
House rolls his eyes. “No, the past four years have been a social experiment to see how far I could stretch the limits of our friendship by calling you my boyfriend.”
“That’s too big a commitment, even for you.”
House chuckles. It's easier to laugh with Wilson. Then he remembers.
“Wait a minute.” It’s a pain to get out from under the sheets when Wilson’s stuck to him like an octopus, but House gets across the room to where his jacket’s sitting on the chair and reaches into the pocket to toss something to Wilson. It bounces off his head and onto the bed.
Wilson pats around to find the thing and when he finally recognizes what it is, a genuine smile makes its way across his face.
“Did you really stay back to break into my office just to get this?” The object in question is an old, tiny doll that belonged to Erin. House has seen it enough times that he could remember it even if he got rid of it, but it was the one thing that made Erin happy. And now Wilson.
“Yes. And also to bother Foreman to run more tests and place a bet with Chase. But I figured you could keep something to...think of her. So she’s not really gone.”
“But you think she is.”
“Of course she is. But I barely knew her. Maybe she's still somewhere in Chase's accent, you just gotta catch him singing in the shower.”
Wilson lets out a laugh. “House, are you being sentimental?”
“Wilson,” he says, aiming for a glare but not quite landing.
Wilson deposits the doll on the table beside him and rolls over to bury his face in House's neck again. It's comfortable like this. When he can love Wilson without Wilson seeing the word sap written all over his face.
“Thank you, House,” he whispers. House can feel some wetness on his skin again.
“Always,” House replies in lieu of the words he should say, but he’s said it once. By the way Wilson’s breath evens out, he knows Wilson's understood what he's thinking.