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The sound of a crash nearly has Wilson busting his kneecap as he rushes to his feet. He’s off without thinking about it. Nevermind that he’s been trying to play it cool (for as much as that will ever work with House) for the past few days, like they’re just two dudes hanging out on their week off. Not like House’s entire world has crashed around his ears, no.
Mostly, Wilson is thinking about how most household accidents happen in the bathroom, particularly with the elderly. Lots of hard surfaces for people unsteady on their feet. House is a superhero, there’s nothing wrong with House, he’s doing perfectly fine, okay, whatever – House can crack his head open on the edge of the toilet bowl like anyone else. More than the concussion, Wilson frets that House really will kill himself if he gets one more loss.
“I’m fine!” House starts before Wilson even clears the door, giving an aggressive wave of his hand in his direction. “Aw, Jesus, don’t – what part of occupied don’t you understand? Get the hell out of here.”
His eyes are on House. Naked, sitting on the floor, a towel half-heartedly thrown over his lap. No blood that he can see. Wilson leans back on his ankles to stare into the eyes of someone who looks like he wants to take a dagger to his eye.
“I’m fine.” Well, that’s good for fine motor control. House spits at him on the f in fine.
“You don’t have a concussion,” Wilson corrects, wiping his sleeve across his face. He looks down, but he doesn’t move the towel. The bandages came off a week ago, and the wound has mostly healed up. That all said, Wilson doesn’t think that clears House for blunt force trauma to the spot where his thigh muscle used to be.
Only then does he realize that the shower is running.
“You… took a shower?”
House is no longer meeting his eyes, his cheek pressed against his shoulder. “I smell. I thought the two might be related.”
They’ve been doing sponge baths. Well, House has been doing sponge baths. Wilson’s performed exactly two – and House was basically catatonic during the first. Kind of terrifying, actually. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen House silent so long. He’d prefer the other time, where House mocked every facet of his life and then bit him when he tried to get behind his ears.
Since then, it’s been House doing it. Bent over at the waist by the sink, body straining to do what he could. It’s never very much. Frankly, it’s a lot more effort than House should be extending, because it’s usually his physical therapy exercises that suffer afterwards. And yeah, House smells, but who cares?
“So you decided to… bathe yourself in a way that requires standing.”
“The standing wasn’t the hard part. I put my hand on the wall.”
Wilson waits. Finally, House forces out the truth between his teeth, and Wilson wants to strangle him then and there. “I slipped getting in.”
It takes a surprising amount of strength not to make a joke about it, not to mock House’s recklessness. For God’s sakes, he’s a doctor. He should know. But of course the rules do not apply to House, have never applied to House, and if he got himself killed, that was just a fluke. Instead, Wilson sighs and looks down at the floor between them.
“What’d you hit?”
House yanks back the towel on his legs. Christ, he had the misfortune to fall on his bad leg. Most of his calf and knee is one giant red bruise. He must have made a noise, because House soon covers it back up again.
“Wasn’t that bad,” he defends bluntly, tilting his head to rest on the wall. “Took attention away from the thigh.”
“Thank god you had a change of pace, at least.”
House isn’t going to get up anytime soon, and like hell is Wilson going to leave him like this. He moves to sit next to him against the bathroom wall. Immediately, his pants are saturated with House’s run off. Doesn’t even look like he got his entire body under the spray; only half of House’s hair is wetted down. Well, between the pair of them, they’ll make one doused man.
They haven’t talked about it.
Any of it.
Frankly, Wilson doesn’t think his head has stopped spinning since he got that phone call. Of course House’s body decides to up and kill him when Wilson is halfway across the world at a conference. Stacy is House’s medical emergency contact, nobody in the infectious disease department can stand House, and neither Cuddy nor House are exactly just calling to let you know people. Wilson got back to Jersey miffed that House hadn’t been taking his calls. He found out his first day back at the hospital, when House was just waking from his coma.
He knows it’s not his fault. He couldn’t have done anything if he was here. He couldn’t have magically fixed House’s leg, but –
But even after, Wilson couldn’t do much. House’s immediate days were spent in rehab, and afterwards, close supervision by Stacy herself. He didn’t know why Stacy never asked for his help. Knowing the woman, Wilson could only surmise that to ask for help was a sign of defeat, was a sign that House’s parade of torment had finally beaten her down and she needed back-up.
Besides a few store runs and casserole drop-offs, Wilson really hadn’t done much up until Stacy left.
They haven’t talked about that, either.
He’s talked more with Stacy about it than with House. Being House’s friend comes with an inherent lack of dignity. Wilson wasn’t above trying to call Stacy and smooth things out, to encourage her to take some time away, but always – always to leave things open, in case she wanted to return. Five years was a long god-damn time, after all, and things were just rough. Wilson could understand rough patches in relationships.
He didn’t make any headway.
Stacy is gone, probably for good, and there’s nothing he can do to fix that.
And maybe he’s the real asshole in this situation, because he hadn’t been able to shake the teeny, tiny oh, thank god, I can finally do something instead of sitting around.
“And is there any reason why you didn’t want to use the bath…?”
“Oh, go fuck yourself,” House seethes.
Wilson sighs. “I’m just saying.” Maybe it’s not worth even trying. House’s mind only changes when he wants to let his mind change, and there’s nothing but a cinderblock in there right now. It’s worrying, honestly. He’s taken his pain meds an hour ago, usually Wilson gets a neutral few hours before House’s mood takes another nosedive. “It’d be a good compromise if you want wash yourself. Getting in and out will be hard, but if we take it slow –”
“I’m not taking a god-damn bath.”
He spits it like it’s a curse. There’s something there, something that runs deeper than House not wanting to admit he was wrong. Wilson’s head tilts to the side curiously. In the long time they’ve known each other, Wilson has never seen House take a bath. That doesn’t mean anything.
Yeah, he can’t figure it out. Maybe House thinks baths are for pussies or something.
Most of House’s bluster is a facade, though it doesn’t really matter much. Wilson doesn’t think people would feel better knowing that House doesn’t really mean most of what he says, with how often he says them. Sometimes he’ll crack the geode and find that a few strange opinions have wiggled their way into House’s view of the world.
“You know, I enjoy taking baths,” Wilson suggests. Not that he’s the ideal man or anything, in House’s worldview or otherwise, but it’s worth a try. “It’s just nice to relax, take a load off. And, you know, your leg might hurt less if –”
“No you don’t.” Shit. “Everything in Wilson’s World has a purpose. You are not going to sit in a vat of water and cook in your own juices for an hour.”
“Is that why you don’t like them?” Of course Wilson isn’t going to rise to House’s bait; he’s going to have to try a lot harder than that. House scoffs. “You think they’re unhygienic? Worried about infection, don’t trust your water quality? What, what is it?” When House doesn’t respond immediately, Wilson presses: “I know you’re not getting up anytime soon. I’ve got the rest of my day.”
“To interrogate me on why I don’t like baths. ”
“As to why you’d rather risk a concussion than get into a pail of water, House. Yes.” And then he makes a fatal error: “I’m not going to let this go.”
“Oh, yes, you will,” House mocks him. “You know damn well I can end this conversation whenever I want by getting up and walking away. You’ll be afraid to ever bring it up again, so that the poor cripple doesn’t overextend himself. Not over something as stupid as a bath.”
Yeah, there’s no walking back from this one. Wilson huffs a breath. “Alright,” he allows. “You’re right. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to know, though. You’re not… scared of telling me things, normally. You know.”
That makes House huff a breath, but Wilson stands by it. It’s not a sign of their lifelong trust or whatever – House hates intimacy, even inside his own head. If something scares him, he’ll rip it out of himself just so he doesn’t have to look at it anymore. Sometimes House makes the strategic decision not to tell him things, with disastrous side effects, but scared? House can’t sit with scared.
“ Scared,” House muses. “Why do you think I’m scared?”
“I genuinely can’t think of any other reason. As for why you’d be scared…” Wilson’s chin dips briefly in thought. “I honestly have no idea.”
“Well, then, you’re an idiot.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s not fear. It’s…” House straightens out his back along the wall. Wilson hears something crack in his spine. Well, it’s not quite a physical therapy exercise, but it’s not nothing. “A perfectly normal biological reaction.”
“Oh my God, I knew it. You melt. How did I not put it together before.”
It gets a lip twitch out of House. Considering the past few weeks? That’s a victory. “My, uh…” House starts, looking down at his legs. “Dad. You know. Him.”
Yes, he does know, you know, him. It has passed Wilson’s mind once or twice that they probably don’t know their only son almost died, but he hasn’t even brought up letting them know. Eventually, he will. He just doesn’t see how their presence could help. For one thing, his mother would worry herself to death over something she can’t help. And his father…
Yeesh.
“Yeah?”
“Marine, you know. Very regulated punishments, very… think the only baby book he ever read was ‘Training Your Future Marine’.” House pauses. “Army, I guess, if I didn’t quite make the cut for Marines. I think he’d rather me be gay than a sailor or Coast Guard, though.”
“Yeah,” Wilson agrees, uncertain.
“If I broke my curfew – he would, uh. He’d have this thing, where he’d fill the tub up with water. Then he’d go to the store, get a five pound bag of ice, bring it back, and dump it in.”
Something in Wilson’s stomach sours. He can’t even find the words. Sympathy seems wrong, and not something House would appreciate besides, but Jesus fucking Christ. He can’t even imagine.
“See, he was strategic about it. He’d make me sit in the bathroom and wait until he came back with the ice. It made me think. Do whatever I could to prepare. Wet my hair first, get my heart rate up, get my heart rate down, try to induce a fever, get towels, get… you know. Whatever,” House says, and Wilson does not you know, whatever. His friend shrugs his shoulder at him. “Then I’d get in. He had a stop watch. However many minutes I was past my curfew… was how long I had to stay in.”
“Oh my god,” Wilson finally mutters. He thinks he and House might be staring at the same spot on the wall. Part of him wants to bring an arm up to go around House’s shoulders, to keep him close, to look him in the eye and say wow, your dad is a fucking bastard. But he doesn’t. Instead, he just sits there, shoulder-to-shoulder, and stares straight ahead.
“And every time I tried to get in the bath after that…” House swallows. “Heart rate spikes, my brain is flooded with adrenaline. Everything,” he emphasizes, “Is fine with my head. It’s my body that can’t get the fucking memo.”
He concludes that (hideously incorrect) statement with a pat to his bad leg.
Wilson has to pull his brain away from the daddy-ice-bath thing. It’s probably going to make a reappearance just before he goes to sleep. There’s a problem at hand, here, and he needs to fix it. Decking an elderly Marine is not something that he can do. Something he can fantasize about, sure, but not actually go ahead and do.
“And that doesn’t… bother you?” Wilson asks, eventually.
“It’s not hard to avoid baths. They really aren’t that hygienic.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. I-I mean – look,” Wilson sighs, “For normal people, they’d accept that as a lasting effect of PTSD –” He holds up one finger, because he can already see House twitch. “ Not-saying-that’s-what-you-have, and they would deal with it. But you? Seriously, I’m, I’m just… taken aback that you’ve finally reacted to something like everyone else.”
“You’re goading me.”
“I’m not.” Wilson is genuinely not sure if he is. Sometimes you get drawn into a verbal battle with House against your will, like he exudes pheromones. “It’s just… a surprise, honestly. Knowing you, I thought you would’ve been a deep sea diver just to get back at him. But instead, you’re working with your limitations and acknowledging what you can’t do. It’s… House, don’t.”
But House is already struggling onto his good leg with a grunt of pain. Wilson has his hand out, whether to stop him or help him, but House is evidently a big boy. He manages to get himself to stand, though he’s reduced to panting. One hand holds the towel over his waist to preserve his dignity. Wilson scrambles up next to him. “House, what are you –”
House doesn’t have his cane. It triggers some horrified Wilson in reflex to see him one-footed hop-stumble across the wet bathroom floor, but House manages to stay upright on his way to the bathtub. With a grunt, he turns it on.
Okay. You know what, this is kind of on him.
“Cheaper than scuba lessons,” House murmurs, putting one hand on the wall. God only knows where the guy’s cane is. With his other hand on the towel, though, Wilson is fully able to walk over and turn off the water. House makes a noise of disgust.
“Okay, I get what you’re trying to do here. And I’m not –”
“I’m not letting this stay in my brain, Wilson.”
“I get it, okay? But with the meds you’re on, I really don’t think working yourself up into an anxiety attack is –”
“I don’t need anyone,” House hisses at him. “If I could tear out the part of my brain that lets me connect with anybody, I’d go under the scalpel today.”
It doesn’t sting. House is an ingrate, Wilson knows this, but sometimes it goes deeper than that – sometimes House forgets he exists, in the same way that most people don’t consider their leg a separate part of themselves. There are days when this is good. Days when this is bad.
This is suddenly more than House’s father. This is suddenly about Stacy, this is suddenly about the hospital, this is suddenly about everyone House has ever let get important to him – except, Wilson hopes, himself.
This isn’t about overcoming a childhood aversion, this is suddenly a metaphor for House’s heart. Wilson thinks it would be easier if House’s meds allowed him to drink.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” No, that’s not disconcerting to hear House mumble over and over. Wilson reaches over to turn off the tap. It’s about the closest, he thinks, that House has come to punching him since the surgery. Or… alternatively, maybe even the closest he’s ever seen House come to bursting into tears. His eyes are wet, flushed with red.
“Just listen.” Wilson tries. “Look, House, I’m not trying to talk you out of this. We’ll get you a bath. I’m just saying, logically, rationally, if you work yourself up, there’s a chance that we’ll have to go right back to the hospital. You know the meds you’re on. You know your body has basically been put through hell.” He doesn’t want to think about the months of physical therapy erased if House moves his leg the wrong way. “You don’t have to – to put yourself through fire to get through this, you know? Growth doesn’t have to be agony.”
House looks like he wants to eat him.
Wilson doesn’t back down. Instead, his voice grows softer, more careful. “This is why I’m here,” he soothes. Remember your leg is attached to the rest of your body and it wants to be useful. “I’m here to make all of this a little easier. I’m here so you don’t have to do all this alone. So let me help,” he advocates, “And if it doesn’t work, then you can burn it all down. Okay?”
House looks at him, looks down at Wilson’s hand covering the tap, and yeah, Wilson thinks House is actually looking at him. That’s progress. That’s a good sign.
“Okay,” House allows. “But you’re going to have to catch me.”
“Wh –”
And then House collapses.
***
“What makes you think that I’d be into hospital soaps? ”
“You like weird things that happen in hospitals. You also like sex, but I draw the line at watching porn with you in the bathtub.”
“You’re scared that might make you seem gay?” House’s voice grows louder as he passes through the doorway to the bathroom. From where Wilson is seated on the floor, he doesn’t look up. He’s seen House’s naked body quite a few times over the years they’ve known each other. There’s no surprises, but he’s sure that if he looks, he’s going to stare at the scar. This situation is already fraught enough.
“I just think we should keep a few secrets between us. Intrigue is good to keeping a marriage alive.”
“Speaking of marriage, does your wife know that you’re with a naked man?” House limps past him, holds out his cane. Wilson takes it without looking. Situated in front of him on one of House’s nightstands is a DVD player, currently playing the title screen for season one of Love in the ER.
Behind him is a full bath. The steam has already dampened down the back of his head. He didn’t make it boiling, but he’s made it as hot as House could reasonably stand. Wilson doesn’t know any other way to separate it from his childhood memories.
“She knows that I’m with you.” She’s not too happy about it, either, but what the hell else is Wilson supposed to do? Besides, Bonnie’s always hated House. House could be dead and she wouldn’t want him to attend the funeral. House tries to keep it under wraps, but he knows the situation is mutual. “I can call her to let her know that you’re naked, if you want.”
“I’m sure she’s already put that together.” The edge of House’s calf comes into Wilson’s field of view as House positions himself by the tub.
He doesn’t get in. He just stands there, probably in a good deal of pain. Wilson doesn’t turn his head to look at him. Instead, he just leans over to give House’s calf a squeeze of solidarity.
It’s times like these – when House’s need is so apparent, so raw, so desperate – that Wilson feels closest to him. This is his best friend, and while sometimes House can be a gigantic asshole, Wilson can’t deny that he loves him. He wants to see him be better. He wants to see him be out of pain, be happy.
And right now, there’s not a single person on Earth who is there for him. Stacy’s gone. He doesn’t have the hospital; with House on medical leave, Cuddy’s concern is limited to one call a week. His parents don’t know. House has no other friends.
Wilson is there for him. So much as Wilson believes in purpose, this is his.
House would never let him live it down if he said any of this aloud.
“T… Turn it on,” House whispers, a little choked, and Wilson does.
His voice is practiced and casual. “I don’t know, I was just looking around the Blockbuster, and this stood out to me. It was either this or a police procedural, so I just hedged my bets.” Behind him, he hears a soft splash of water and a grunt of pain. “Apparently Nicole Kidman has a guest role in a couple of episodes, I’m sure she’s great. Oh, wait. Here’s the blurb on the back of the box. ‘Sometimes the patients are the ones who heal us’. I might steal that for the next conference presentation.”
His eyes scan over the rest. Behind him, he hears another splash, and a low, shaky breath. The water shifts around in the tub, some of it soaking over the rim to stain the back of his collar. Wilson doesn’t take any notice of it.
“So how much do you want to bet there’s a brain-eating amoeba in the first season? Or… god, House. I don’t know. What was that one case you had? With the, with the girl who had different DNA, one strand had signs of Von Willebrand, the other didn’t? You published a paper on it a few years ago.” When House doesn’t immediately respond, Wilson gives into the twinge of alarm in the back of his head. “House?”
“C… Chimerism,” House eventually sighs. More water splashes behind Wilson’s head. “They wouldn’t bring in chimerism in the first season. It gets too technical.”
“Oh, so someone’s a TV director, now. You want something?” Wilson gestures beside him.
He’s not a trauma expert. Wilson knows how to talk to people who are dying, but that’s about the limits of his expertise. He doesn’t know what to do, here, except… make House comfortable. Make him feel safe, make him feel like he’s not alone. The only thing Wilson could think of, that he could conceivably haul into the bathroom, was the countless hours he’s spent with House on his sofa, watching television.
So, here he is. At ten at night, a pilot of a hospital soap opera launching in front of him, the waxy tunes of the late-eighties echoing in the darkened bathroom. To his right, he’s made a small sweep of the Blockbuster snacks counter. Popcorn, candy, soda. He doesn’t know. Felt like it would make it cozier.
Wilson doesn’t know how long this will last, if it will even work. If House wants to give himself a trial by fire afterwards, then he’s done his best. But…
A wet hand snakes by his shoulder, reaching over the rim of the tub. House brings back a cardboard container of Milk Duds that are absolutely going to be made disgusting by the water, so Wilson better get them soon.
He sticks his hand out behind him. “Hey, give me a few of those.”
What he gets are not a few morsels of chocolate-and-carmel, but the soft, wet, warm, horrifying sensation of someone’s tongue running across his palm.
Wilson jerks his back with a shriek that he’s not too proud of, but Jesus Christ. He twists himself around to see House grinning at him, one cheek bloated with Milk Duds. Before Wilson can think remember not to startle him or stress him out any further, he slaps the water to splash House across the face. “ Honestly, you’re a child.”
It gets most of his hair, flattening it to his scalp. House recoils back from the splash, but the grin doesn’t drop from his face. Water rolls down his temples, down his cheeks, all the way down to the tip of his chin before dropping into the water.
House is in the water.
Jesus, House is in the water. Wilson can’t say anything about what his mental state is – what his pulse is, what his body temperature is doing – but House is in the tub, and he’s not fleeing in terror from it. That’s… that’s exceptional.
His heart is doing little backflips. It’s funny, really: the brain getting so worked up that it tells the heart to react accordingly, to where Wilson’s sheer, ripping, fierce joy feels a little like an arrhythmia. He just wants to launch himself over the edge of the tub to hug House and bring him close, to tell him that they did it, they got one fucking win, and even if it’s small, it’s worth so much. It’s a sign that things can still change for the better, even a little.
House sticks his tongue at him. Streaks of chocolate march up the length of it. Wilson rolls his eyes, sticks out his tongue back, and gets himself settled back against the tub again. He hears House make himself comfortable, too, stretched out lengthwise.
Fine, he guesses he’ll go for the popcorn. Wilson slides the microwave bag into his lap.
“How’s the water feel on your leg?”
“God – !” House groans, practically sexual. “Fucking phenomenal. Get a cushion for your ass, Wilson, because we’re staying here for a while.”
He’ll have to re-evaluate when the water starts to get cold. He doesn’t want House pushing himself too much, but… well. Even if House starts to push himself too much, Wilson will be there for him. Everything is worth it, for moments like this.
Just as Wilson starts to wonder if he really should get a pillow, because the rim of the tub is starting to eat into his shoulderblades, he feels something wet at his shoulder. House’s hand, squeezing gently.
Wilson looks behind at him, but House’s attention is firmly fixed on the DVD player. He gets it. They don’t need to have a talk about it. Seeing House happy like this is thanks enough, after weeks of what he’s had to go through. He reaches up to pat House’s fingers. Soon enough, the man’s arm disappears back into the water.
He throws a kernel of popcorn up in the air and catches it in his mouth, and then another. Behind him, he hears House chewing caramel loudly, and – here in the darkened bathroom, watching a television soap opera, with a whirlwind of medications and bandages just outside the door – Wilson can feel that his head is set on straight, for the first time since the surgery.
House needs him, Wilson is here for him.
This is where he was meant to be.