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"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Wilson growled, gripping to the front of House's shirt like a lifeline. House was sprawled out on the floor like a discarded doll, his body hanging limply in Wilson's grasp. He smiled groggily at the man, staring up at him through half-lidded eyes.
"Well, good morning to you too." House croaked, laughing wheezily. He took in a few short, painful breaths, gagging and spluttering so violently that Wilson thought he may vomit again. He swiftly yet carefully pulled House up into a sitting position and dragging a trashcan over to him.
Terrible noises forced their way through House's body and up out of his mouth, only dying down once he expelled the contents of his stomach into the trashcan. Wilson couldn't help but feel anger towards the man, the urge to chastise him burning within his soul like a forest fire. However, as he glanced at the half empty bottle of Vicodin still clutched in the other man's hand, he didn't know whether to yell or sob.
Wilson reached for his pager, alerting fellow hospital staff about his current situation. He winced at how professional his tone came across, as if the man currently in his arms was nothing but a patient that had taken too many of his pain meds in an attempt to numb the agony. House wasn't just any patient, though. He was his friend.
Friend might be a strong word, actually. Wilson did care about the man, but at the same time he hated him with every bone in his body. How could a person so intelligent be so fucking morinic? What would happen if one day he overdosed and no one was there to save him in time? Would House even give a shit about how his death would affect the hospital? How it would affect Wilson?
Self centered, ignorant, overly-confident. That was Gregory house to a tee. No one really liked him, no one truely wanted to be around him and spend time with him outside of a professional setting.
Why Wilson kept running back to him, he didn't know. The man was like a drug, unhealthy and addictive.
"You know, you can shout at me if you want." House finally broke the silence, and Wilson found himself staring out of the window. He could have commented on the sarcasm in the other's voice, or told him how he reeked of vomit in a futile attempt to embarrass him, but Wilson instead found himself running a gentle hand across House's back. The trashcan was set aside, and suddenly Wilson felt a weight against his chest.
Looking down, the oncologist was met with a head of greying hair under his chin. Confusion spread across his face, unsure whether to move away or lean into the hold. As if he was suddenly possessed, Wilson watched as his own arms snaked their way around House's waist and chest. He had no idea why he'd decided to accept the sudden affection from the very man that had just scared him half to death, however he found an odd comfort in the solid form against his front.
The rise and fall of House's chest beneath his fingers was grounding, even if his breathing was rather shallow and haggered. Help would be on the way soon, for now, they held onto eachother as if they were to die if they so much as gave letting go a thought. Perhaps they might, but neither wanted to test that theory.
"You still alive?" Wilson blurted out with a sour laugh, doubling down in the midst of his nervousness "I don't want you dying on me."
No response. The breathing under his fingers had stopped, and his own heartrate had quickly picked up.
"House. House!" Shaking the body in his arms, Wilson started to hyperventilate. He had no idea how much House had taken, no idea how much he'd been on before and therefore how much was in his system. Lord knows how long he'd been lying there next to that pool of vomit, just staring up at the ceiling waiting to die.
Had he been too late? Had his- had the best doctor in the hospital just died in his arms?
"House! House!!" He pleaded, tears begining to form in the cornors of his eyes as his breath came out in shaky gasps.
A laugh erupted against him suddenly, the still body in his arms shuddering with hearty chuckles. Wilson could do nothing but stare ahead, mouth forming a thin line as he tried to hold in his rage.
"Jesus! You thought I was actually dead!" House wheezed, coughing and spluttering violently as he tried to catch his breath. He said something else, tapping Wilson's hand that was now balled into a fistul of tshirt. Head like static, the oncologist let out a shaky breath, loosening his hold on House like he was finally letting him float away.
Like he was finally allowing him to die, if he so wished.
He let out a mental sigh of relief when new voices filed into the room, ignoring the tightening in his chest as he felt many pairs of eyes bare into him. Hands pulled the warmth away from him, snapping him out of his dissociative haze with a feeling that could only be described as disappointment. He stood up, joints protesting with a crack from how long he had been sitting still.
"What the hell happened??" Cuddy rushed in, watching as they wheeled House off into the corridor. Wilson grimaced, eyes darting between her and the absolute mess on the floor as he ran his hands up and down his biceps in an attempt to soothe himself.
"House overdosed on Vicodin, I found him on the floor- I'm not sure how much he took." Wilson recounted the events that had just unfolded, the nasty mental image of his friend's pale face flashing through his mind.
Cuddy looked at him with sympathy, patting his arm as they gradually sank into silence.
"We should probably go and check on him soon." Cuddy sighed, voice laced wih frustration. Wilson could only nod, his eyes fixated on the mini white pills scattered around.
"We should clean up his office soon, you know he wont do it himself." He choked out a laugh, digging his nails into his arms in an attempt to keep himself grounded. Things like this shouldn't bother him so much, he'd seen patients suffer worst fates than a (hopefully) non-lethal overdose, yet something about this incident had shaken him to his core.
A soft chuckle emerged from the woman beside him, his stomach churning from how lightly she seemed to be taking the situation.
----
They laid him on a bed, the rustle of stiff sheets filling his ears and the stench of chemicals burning his nostrils. He felt as they lifted his arm, oh so carefully placing a bracelet around his wrist before hooking him up to all sorts of machinery.
God, he was so tired. His limbs were like lead, and he could barely keep his eyes open. Unconiousness did not come for him, however. There was always a voice, a light in the darkness pulling him out. He clung to that voice, he didn't know why.
Eventually, when he did give in to that blissful abyss, he still found that sleep did not come. Blood tests, followed by several IV drips and a shaky hand carding gently through his hair. At first, he'd assumed it was Cuddy, part of him thought maybe he was hallucinating and this was some Vicodin induced fantasy. Upon further inspection, the fingers couldn't be Cuddy's. The hands weren't slim enough and the nails were too short, not to mention the way the hand trembled everytime it sank into his scalp.
Wilson.
His heart both jumped and sank upon this realisation, a tidlewave of emotions hitting him like a truck. For a moment, House tried to tell himself Wilson was too busy to sit around and watch a practically comatose patient all day, or that he was too mad at him to keep him company, but no one else touched him with such caution and care.
No one else wanted to touch him.
"You're really stupid, you know." The voice confirmed it. Wilson stayed with him for a while, the hand in his hair only leaving When footsteps entered the room. When his eyes finally willed themselves to open, there he was sitting in a chair almost right up against the matteress.
"Hey, how do you feel?" His voice was soft and light, though House could still hear the hint of concern buried underneath. Frustratingly, he was unable to respond, still to exauhsted to talk. Instead, House opted for a charming, lopsided smile that made Wilson look at him strangely and turn away to laugh.
After taking a few minutes to compose himself, Wilson returned to his seat and immediately resumed massaging House's scalp. He looked up at Wilson in confusion, however the man seemed engrosed in whatever stupid show was airing on the room's tv.
Everything started to get heavier all over again, and suddenly House found his vision swimming in darkness. This time, however, he didn't seem to be seeking out that comforting voice, instead letting the hand in his hair finally lull him to sleep.