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People are talking around him, but Wilson barely registers what they’re saying.
Their voices drone on and on, none of them louder than the voices in his own head. They’d been driving to him distraction lately, sneaking up on him in the moments that count the most. Like this one: the monthly Oncology department meeting.
He should be paying more attention, he knows he should. He’s the head of the department, and it’s his responsibility to listen and be the compassionate, patient, caring man they’ve all come to know. The man they expect.
That man is nowhere in sight. He hasn’t been for days.
“…and I think that we should try and allocate a bit more money in the budget for a refresh of the books in our pediatric wing.” Dr. Jeffries says. He turns his gaze to Wilson. “Just something to take into consideration. The kids have been asking for new books.”
Wilson blinks and nods his head, searching for whatever part of him is left among the dark mass currently piloting his brain and body. What would Dr. Wilson-Who-Bleeds-Caring say? He would say… “Yeah. Yes, of course we can look for room for that. For now I’ll see what I can do about getting a few books to put on the shelves until the budget gets submitted and approved.”
Jeffries smiles, and Wilson writes a note on his shamefully blank notepad. Books for kids.
Wilson wants to pull his hair out. To scream. To tell everyone he doesn’t give a shit about what they have to say, that he doesn’t want to find room in the budget for any of the requests they’re putting through. That he doesn’t care about the complaints being brought forward. None of it means anything to him.
But it does. He has to remind himself, with a cadence that sounds suspiciously like House’s. He does care, and he does want to help. He just…can’t access those emotions right now. He doesn’t want to.
The meeting adjourns and Wilson somehow finds himself back in his office. He doesn’t remember walking from the meeting room to the elevators, doesn’t remember pushing the buttons and waiting, doesn’t remember walking to his office and sitting down at his desk. He looks towards the door, and is relieved to find he’s locked it. A glance at the balcony door confirms the same—he’s safe from unwanted intrusions for the time being.
Until House gets bored. Or until he goes off the rails and the fellows ask him to wrangle House because that’s what’s expected of him.
The voices swell and tumble in his mind. You’re not doing enough crashes against just walk away and don’t come back smashes against do you really think they’d miss you? Do you think he’d miss you? A cacophony of every shitty thing he’s ever thought about himself getting louder and louder until he can’t take it anymore.
Wilson drops his head into his hands, then curls further into himself until his face is tucked in his arms, his fingers threaded through his hair and tugging, like that could somehow fix it. He’s trying to keep a handle on his breathing, which is teetering dangerously on the verge of hyperventilation.
And then, somewhere in the mess of it all, a sense of calm washes over him. He sits up, distantly aware of his body moving as he stands, grabs his keys, and walks out his door. He watches from afar as he walks to the elevator, then out of the building into the parking lot. Whatever good part of that him still exists is screaming and banging on the walls of his prison, a barely audible go back! You’re walking out of work! echoing in cavernous silence.
He gets in his car.
He turns the key in the ignition.
He drives.
And drives. And drives. And drives.
Until the city gives way to the highway, and he sees signs for Long Branch Beach and starts to follow them. Each passing sign shows less and less miles between him and the ocean and he drives. He ignores the way his phone vibrates in his pocket over and over again. There’s a fight in the back of his mind, but he’s only distantly aware of it now. Cars pass by him, and he passes by them again in return. He’s barely paying attention to the road, letting instinct take over.
And then, he’s at the beach. The air is salty, and Wilson breathes it in. He rolls his sleeves up, takes off his shoes and socks and cuffs his pants before walking down the stairs and onto the sand. It’s hot and shifts underneath his feet, but he welcomes the burn. It’s something to keep him tethered to reality.
The waves lap gently at the shore, and the sun beats down on him. He sits somewhere far from other people and leans back to rest on his hands. He loses himself in the waves.
Wilson wonders what it would be like to walk into the ocean and never come back. To force himself to fight past his natural instinct to breathe and swim back to shore. He imagines himself doing it, over and over again, until he’s comforted by the fantasy. Until he finds himself bending his legs as if to stand up and follow through.
Until his phone rings and snaps him out of it.
With a shaking hand, he reaches into his pocket and looks at the caller ID: House.
“Hello?”
“Jesus Christ,” House breathes. “Finally.”
Wilson shuts his eyes and fights against the tears that are suddenly prickling at the corners of his eyes.
“Wilson, where are you?” House sounds…distraught. Or as close to distraught as he can get.
“Out.” He manages to force out.
“Yeah, that much is clear by how you’re not at your desk and your department is freaking the fuck out about you walking out in the middle of the day.” House’s voice is shaking.
“I’m fine.” The promise is hollow. He’s not fine—he’s pretty sure he had been on the precipice of trying to kill himself. The realization hits him and he has to swallow down a terrified sob. “I’m fine, House.”
“James,” Soft, so soft it breaks Wilson’s heart. “James, talk to me. Please.”
“How do you live with it?” Wilson asks. “How do you live with the temptation?”
House sighs. “Out of spite.”
“Not the pills, House.”
“I’ve tried to kill myself multiple times in the last six years, Wilson. I don’t think I’m the right person to ask that question to.”
“Too bad. I’m asking it anyway.” Wilson stares at the ocean again and digs his free hand into the sand.
It’s silent while House thinks. “I justify it as scientific curiosity. I’m not suicidal, I’m curious. Nolan’s told me multiple times that that particular reframing of the thought isn’t great but he appreciates the effort. I think the way to live with the temptation is to admit that you have that temptation to begin with.”
“Rehab really taught you something this time, huh?”
House huffs out a laugh. “Shit. I guess so.”
“I’m tempted.” Wilson says, as casually as he can.
“I know,” House’s reply is simple, but somehow comforting. “Why do you think I’ve been calling you?”
“I figured you’d be calling me to wonder why I wasn’t there to buy you lunch.” He tries to go for teasing, but misses by a mile.
“Lunch is when I can check in on you,” House says, “Lunch isn’t worth shit to me if you’re not there. It’s not because you pay for me, Wilson. It never has been.”
Tears spill from Wilson’s eyes as House keeps talking. “I’ve known for at least a week that you weren’t doing well. I…I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner. That I didn’t do anything sooner.”
“It’s okay, House.”
“Where are you?” House asks again.
“Long Branch Beach.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.” There’s rustling and the faint jingle of keys in the background. “Can you hold on for an hour?”
The waves lap at the shore, gently moving in and receding. Wilson’s tempted again. An hour. He can do it. “Yeah, I can.”
And so Wilson sits, stares at the water, and recites all the different types of cancer he knows, listing diagnostic criteria and care based on progression until he sees a cane appear in his peripheral vision. He keeps his eyes forward as House struggles to sit down—sand had been hard for him since the infarction.
“No case?” Wilson asks quietly, looking over to take in the sight of House sitting beside him.
“‘Course I have a case.” House rolls his eyes.
“Then why—”
“Because you were tempted.” House says, looking out towards the horizon. “I know what that’s like, to sit with it long enough that it starts to sound like a good idea, like you could actually go through with it. I didn’t want you to be alone in that feeling.”
“I could outrun you to the waves.”
“And I’d fight like hell to keep you out of them.”
Wilson’s breath catches in his throat. He’d thought all his tears had been shed, but he’s somehow crying again, his shoulders shaking, his tears soaking the collar of his shirt. House is looking at him with a calculating expression, he can feel it. He wipes angrily at the tears, his sand covered hands grating roughly against his skin.
“Come sit on my other side.” House says quietly.
“What?”
“Just…come here.”
Wilson climbs over House’s legs, throwing one leg over before bringing the other one behind. Somewhere in the middle, he locks eyes with House and sees that his eyes are shining with tears, too. They stare at each other, in what Wilson knows is an awkward looking position, but he can’t look away from House. He’s pinned under House’s gaze.
Eventually, though, he manages to settle on House’s other side. House pats his good thigh, and Wilson raises a questioning eyebrow.
“Lie down.”
Wilson’s mouth parts on a silent oh. He almost doesn’t, but House pats his leg again and looks like he’s a few seconds away from dragging Wilson down, which is something Wilson would like to avoid in public. So, he shifts his body and tentatively rests his head on House’s leg, moving around until they’re both comfortable. He closes his eyes.
“D’you wanna hear about how Foreman, Chase, and Thirteen are all hooking up?” House asks. “They think I don’t know.”
Wilson’s eyes shoot open, and a startled laugh bubbles out of his throat. “What?”
“Yeah,” To Wilson’s surprise, House brings an oddly sand-free hand to run through his hair. It’s comforting. “Obviously, Foreman and Thirteen are together. I know that. Everyone knows that. But what I recently discovered is that Chase has been joining in.”
“And how did you possibly figure that out?” Wilson is intrigued.
“Easy. Chase wore one of Foreman’s ties the other day. Either neither of them thought I would notice, or they just don’t give a shit if I found out.” House pauses for a beat. “That, and I caught Chase and Foreman making out in the supply closet yesterday.”
“They’re getting sloppy.”
“They definitely were yesterday.”
“Jesus, House.” Wilson laughs again. “I did not need that mental image.”
“Hey, someone needs to share in the pain with me.” House runs his hand through Wilson’s hair and tugs gently. “I obviously don’t give a shit. I just didn’t want to see Foreman sticking his tongue down Chase’s throat. There was grinding involved, too.”
Wilson shudders and settles back down again. House’s hand keeps combing gently through his hair and he feels his eyelids begin to droop. He’s so comfortable here, head in House’s lap, House’s hand carding through his hair. The sound of the water is white noise, lulling him into a sense of security so different from the one he’d felt earlier.
He’s glad House is here. He’s glad to see this side of House, to be the only person who sees him this soft.
“I meant what I said earlier,” House says quietly after a period of time. “I don’t want you to be alone when you feel like this. And if that means beating you with my cane so you can’t try and drown yourself, then that’s what I’ll do. You know I don’t deal in platitudes. I’m not going to sit here and tell you that I care about you, and that you’re loved by so many people, not just by me. I’m going to show you that that’s true. Starting with this. By dropping everything and coming down to the beach to make sure you’re not alone. Because you are more important than my job.”
House pauses for a second before speaking again. Wilson feels his real self starting to make way in his prison escape, getting ready to beat back all of the twisted, dark, distorted thoughts that ruled his brain this last week and a half.
“One of my patients once told me that life is a series of rooms, and who we’re stuck with in those rooms adds up to what our lives are. This beach is your room today, and you’re stuck with me.” House’s hand travels from his hair to his shoulder and down his arm to lace their fingers together. “I want to make sure you make it to your next room. And if I have to be the bastard who makes sure I’m always in the room with you so you can make it to the next one, then I will.”
“That’s the most sincere way anyone has ever told me they loved me.” Wilson whispers, a confession. He can barely hear it over the sound of the water, of children laughing and screaming, of cars passing behind then. “You’re the first person who has ever made me feel loved like this.”
House’s laugh is soft, if not a little self deprecating, too. “Been feeling like that about you since that night in ’93, Wilson.”
“I don’t know if I want to say it back in the way that’s expected of me.” Wilson sits up to look at House. “I don’t think you’d believe me if I said it that way, anyway. House, I…I don’t know how to say it back to you, but I want to.”
House’s hand comes to frame Wilson’s face, and he leans into the touch. “Keep letting me in the room with you, Wilson. If you keep letting me in, I’ll know. And when you’re ready to say it, I’ll be here to listen.”
And for the first time in days, Wilson feels himself take tenuous control of his mind again. A small smile spreads across his face. “Okay,” He says. “Okay.”