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He should have expected this.
He should have expected things to go wrong, but somehow between House getting clean, and Wilson vowing to try to be better, he thought things could change.
Things did change, for better or for worse, he started telling Sam how he felt , and she listened. They both were trying. It still wasn’t enough.
He still wasn't enough.
And why should anyone think he was? How could anyone think he was enough when all he did was fuck up the relationships in his life. People thought, out of the two of them, House was the neurotic asshole. But, the truth is, he’s always been the first to push people out of his life when things get too real.
When he sees House doing the same—pushing away Stacy, making crude jokes at Cuddy’s expense—there’s a fierce anger that overtakes him, because watching House fuck up his life, feels like watching his own mistakes play out on a 120-inch wide screen.
He tells House that “healthy people don’t push others away” and pretends that he’s all-knowing, that he understands what House can’t. Pretends that what drove away the women in his life was a lack of care for them.
The condo’s cold. The decorator he hired chose cool drab colours to match with the place’s modern design. No matter how many blankets he throws over himself, he still feels the chill ache in his bones.
He hasn't told House. He’s afraid that if he does, House might not let him stay, might purse his lips and tell him he deserves it. He's scared he does deserve it.
There are a few bottles of Ibuprofen on the third shelf of the kitchen. All the medical equipment is kept there. It's a bad habit to keep medical equipment so high. He brings down the bottles. In case of an emergency. He rummages through to the end of the shelf, and finds his Antidepressants. Keeps them next to his bed. For better reach.
The bed feels too empty, so he steals pillows from the guest room (House’s room) and bunches them up next to him. He pretends that when he sinks his foot into the pillow it's because Sam’s pulling a double shift at the hospital and House is in the living room playing on the organ.
All his current patients are stable, two or three of them coming in for their post-remission check up. For once, seeing his patients made him feel worse. He kept wondering, kept thinking about who would visit him on his deathbed.
He imagined Cuddy, who would come in to give her condolences. Let him cry on her shoulder, leave soon after because he was just one patient and she was the Dean of Medicine.
He imagines House’s fellows, checking in on House’s orders. House wouldn’t come see him. Wilson’s glad they agreed on that one thing, if not subconsciously.
He knows, other than hospital staff, no one would come, and he wouldn't dare to tell anyone else, and he thinks about the kind of life he has been living up to his point.
And he wonders,
If his life is worth living at all anymore.
Only when the pills swirl down the toilet with mucus and stomach lining, and the pungent smell of vomit surrounds him, does Wilson realize how far things have gone.
Maybe his life isn't worth living right now, and maybe it will never be but he knows if nothing else, he is needed. Or he wants to believe he is. Maybe he can’t offer the world what House can, but he still has something to give.
So the next morning he clears out all of House’s old pills. In fact, he gets rid of all of it. His antidepressants, nausea medication, antihistamines.
He’s scared that the next time he has a long day, his gag reflex might not act up.
_
He gets the call from Cuddy at 2 AM. Before answering, he gives a small prayer in hopes that it’s got nothing to do with House.
God has never let him in his good graces, so instead he drags himself to House's apartment, getting himself ready for a fight with a cobra. His camp counselor always said maintaining eye contact was the trick to get it to back off. Wilson doesn’t know if advice coming from a 15-year-old working to pay for gas money is really that sound, but it's all he has.
It works to a certain extent. But instead of eye contact, it’s giving a condescending sigh, turning on Prescription Passion , cleaning up the mess he made, and waiting for him on the couch while he decides if he’s going to relapse.
Eventually, House finds his way to the couch.
He lets House settle before handing him a beer.
“Did you…”
His voice comes out bitter and sharp, not from anger at House, but anger at himself. He knows if House has taken those pills, it's on him. He’s the one who kicked him out of the condo.
“Nah, can't miss the season finale.”
There's a long stretch of silence before anyone speaks
They don’t usually touch, but for some reason Wilson finds himself bringing his arm around House’s shoulders and pulling him in. His arm snakes around House’s chest until he feels his heartbeat.
House doesn’t protest. But he looks confused.
“Shouldn’t you be getting home, now that you’re done ‘checking in’?”
Wilson ignores the question.
“I’ll take the couch tonight. Tomorrow you can move your stuff back into the condo.”
“I knew you didn’t trust me.”
“This isn’t about trust. I was wrong to kick you out.”
House looks up at him, staring as if to find any kind of insecurity or hesitation in his words. He settles back down watching the TV.
“I want my name on the condo lease this time as a safeguard. ”
“Done.”
“And I want the room with the bathtub”
“Done, as long as you stop that god-awful opera singing”
“No promises, Wilson”
This time House smiles and heat pools in his stomach. Something close to endearment fills his chest and he finds himself smiling back.
The next thing he does is stupid. He knows it was stupid because afterward, House looks over at him with an expression that says ‘I win’ and he finds that post-nut clarity is overrated.
But at the moment, it feels right.
He grabs House by the shirt and pulls him in for a kiss. They both reek of booze, and he misses House’s lips by an inch and instead furiously makes out with his jaw, but he doesn’t stop. House doesn’t pull away either.
Eventually, he finds House’s lips, and when it's over it's like that hole that has been carving itself a home in his stomach, has shrunk by tenfold. Wilsons sure, soon that hole will find some way to sustain itself, but for now, he flourishes in its absence.
_
After successfully breaking bread (and fucking like newlyweds), things become a little easier. They’re not honest with each other by any means, but that's just how they are. House moves into his room, and the old bedroom is converted into a music room.
But when House comes back, so do the pills.
He doesn’t want to see House in pain, but the return of those god-awful pills raises a sense of nausea in him.
So, he insists on buying twin bedside tables, one for him, the other for House, and subsequently, the pills.
When he gets migraines he goes to the clinic pharmacy. Those paper cups hold just enough to subdue the pain, without any inclination to irrationally end his life.
Even if his life was finally looking up, he wasn't a fool. All it took was one bad day.
He never swallows them dry.
There are still no pills in the apartment other than House’s over-the-counter ibuprofen. At night he dreams of overdosing on House’s medication.
But House doesn't suspect anything. Assumes those nightmares are about cancer-ridden patients and not passively suicidal oncologists.
Things go to shit when he gets a migraine off-call.
They’re headed to a monster truck rally that takes place from eight in the fucking morning till eleven at night when it hits him.
By a blessing (soon a curse), he finds himself waking up to the vibrating thrum of pain in his skull, it got unbearable an hour before they were set to leave.
House predictably started bitching
“You did this on purpose!”
He circles the cane around Wilson’s chest accusingly. Wilson groans in exasperation.
“You’re right, House, I purposely gave myself a migraine just to avoid going out with my boyfriend. You caught me!”
“I don't care if you're feverish or if you broke your elbow, we’re going to this rally.”
He takes in a sharp breath, not because House is being an ass, but because migraines are no joke,
and House is headed for the pill cabinet.
The empty pill cabinet.
The upside to having a genius, addict, neurotic boyfriend whose special interest is behavior analysis is that sometimes you can exchange whole conversations through a single look because he gets you.
The downside to having a genius, addict, neurotic boyfriend whose special interest is behavior analysis, is his ability to sniff out your lies, like a SWAT dog and cocaine.
In a second, all the lighthearted buzzing energy is gone from the room, and Wilson holds his breath because House is doing the thing.
House is standing there with the cabinet half open, his eyes shifting back and forth between him and the cabinet. Then, they finally focus onto him. House's brow furrows and his expression can only be described as sinister curiosity.
Wilson, expecting an interrogation, leans down onto the kitchen island to support himself as a wave of nausea hits him.
For a long while, no one says anything.
The migraine gets worse, and he drags himself onto the couch. A short pathetic whimper escapes his mouth, and he immediately regrets letting it pass. House keeps staring.
Then, deciding he’s had enough, he goes into the bedroom and comes out a few minutes later with his biker jacket on, and his cane switched out for one with more support on the handle.
Wilson hears the door slam closed. He’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed that House is leaving him like this but he knows he can’t expect House to stay with him just because he’s in pain.
He meticulously counts the seconds in his head as the time passes by, trying to get through the pain inch by inch. At some point he tangles his hand into his hair, pulling at the roots to alleviate some of the throbbing.
There hasn't been this bad of an attack since he was in med school, after Danny—
He pulls at his hair again. This time, to physically short-wire his brain, so he doesn’t spiral about the way things could have gone if he had answered his phone that night.
It doesn't take long for the pain or his thoughts to come back. He coils his fingers into his strands, and just as he’s about to pull one more time, a hand grabs at his wrist.
Wilson blinks his eyes open, shocked at what he sees. He looks over to the owner of the hand in question. House pulls him up by the arm, still not letting go.
“What about the rally?”
House doesn't answer, he gets a glass of water from the kitchen instead.
“Some idiot who gets chronic migraines threw out his only migraine medication so instead of going to the rally I spent my afternoon picking up the pills he should have already had stocked up.”
By the time House is done, he’s got two pills in his hand and is glaring down at Wilson.
He feels so weak all of a sudden. The fight wears out on him as he takes the pills and the glass of water.
“Mm. Thanks”
“Shut up”
“Sorry.”
“Shut up.”
House sits down beside him on the couch, guiding Wilson’s head onto his lap.
He lets it happen, too tired to question what plan House is cooking up. Finally the sweet relief of the void calls for him. He slips off without a word.
_
When he wakes up, House is cooking something on the stove. It feels like the world has ended. House is taking care of him—more than that; House is letting it go .
The tightness in his chest simmers down and his brain feels raw, but he’s in a good mood. A great mood. He goes up behind House and places a sloppy kiss on his ear, humming a sigh.
House is uncharacteristically silent. That should have been a warning.
Instead of questioning why the most obnoxious person in the world is not complaining about missing a one-time opportunity related to one of his obsessions, Wilson focuses on his bladder.
It's only when he’s washed his hands and reaches for the hand towel does he notice.
The bathroom trash is gone, and with it, an old toothbrush, dirted wet wipes, and the prescription bottle he hid underneath them. The empty prescription bottle, forgotten in his haze of contentness.
House must have taken out the trash while he was asleep. He could know. He does know. But, the silver lining is that House doesn't know that he knows.
If he plays this right, House won’t find out about any of it. This was his secret and no fucking way he was going to let House uncover it, let House know that he’s just as fucked up—if not more—than him.
So, he keeps humming a tune under his breath and sets up plates on their island counter for whatever House has cooked up. The condo echoes the sounds of cutlery hitting porcelain.
Clink, screech, thud.
Screeeech, thud, clink.
House interrupts the cacophony of sounds by sliding his plate away from him. Wilson raises his eyebrow in mock confusion.
“Are you still upset about the rally? Hey, you choose to be all domestic about a small migraine. I never told you to stay.”
“Uh-huh?” House says as if to imply that Wilson was a fucking idiot for even indulging this conversation.
“You could have taken one of your fellows.”
“Huh. You've got a point. It's not like you like monster trucks, might as well take the burden off your shoulders.”
Somehow that insinuation kind of pisses him off. But before he can take it back, House has already doubled down.
“Who even needs you when I can just take Thirteen? She might even hook up with one of the butch grave diggers.”
Okay. The dig about not needing him hurts, but at least now he knows where House stands on the topic.
He sighs. He’s tired of the game but he doesn't know where to even start with explaining what happened last week. He doesn't want to ruin this. Again.
“Sounds like a good time.” Wilson accepts, instead of trying to come up with an offense to House’s threat.
He takes both their plates to the sink, signaling an end to the conversation, but House follows him instead.
He’s silent. It's creepy. Usually, House would psychoanalyze him and verbalize his opinion. The silence makes him anxious, and the anxious feeling starts a thought spiral.
He thinks about how much of a failure he is, being unable to even console his best friend. He doesn't know what to tell House. How can he tell him that it won’t happen again? He knows there’s a high chance it will, but he doesn’t want it. Right now things have been good, but he knows his happiness is temporary. How does he explain wanting to protect himself from himself?
House keeps watching as he cleans the dishes. Maybe he’s still upset about the rally. Maybe he can still fix this.
“Hey, they might be playing reruns of the rally on air right now. We could catch that at least,” he tries, hoping that's what House wanted.
“No.”
“Mm. Well I'm going to sleep, you enjoy your sulking.”
House follows him into the bedroom and Wilson is just about done with this shit.
“What, House? What do you want? You keep following me, and you won't talk. What the hell is it!”
House leans on the doorframe, taking in Wilson’s sight desperately as if it’s his last time seeing him. He’s got a look on his face. Like a dog with its teeth bared.
“You’re off the happy pills.” It's a statement, but House says it like a question.
“I'm not-“
“You are. You wouldn’t have kept a two-year-old prescription just to throw it away now unless you stopped taking them at some point.
“Did you go through the trash?” Wilson feigns shock with some very real irritation at House’s lack of privacy.
“Yeah, and your emails at work. Last therapy appointment three years ago. Last refill two months before that.”
His emails. Shit. There's no way for him to deny it now.
“I flushed down some old meds and you thought that was free rain to check my emails. Of course you did. Why did I expect any kind of privacy with you?”
House is silent at that.
He sighs “I know this is your way of caring. I’m glad you’re worried but sometimes you dig a hole and you don’t find treasure.”
“You're bad at metaphors. And you're wrong—”
“Alright oh great House, please tell me your Housian ways of deducing I’m wrong,” Wilson motions with his hands.
House looks down instead of answering. Again, no psychoanalysis, no long-winded metaphor, and no eye contact.
“Do I make you miserable?” he asks instead.
“…What?”
“It's a yes or no question, Wilson.”
House thinks that this is on him . Wilson feels like an idiot, of course House blames himself for not noticing after Kutner—after Amber, it's as if every time life threw something at House he would take it. Wouldn't fight back against it.
Still, it irritates him. Still, he wishes House could look past himself and see there’s something else going on. Still, he lies about how he’s feeling.
“I had an out, after Amber. Your mom never called that day, it was only Cuddy. You were right. I was doing it to see you.”
House looks up at him, both his hands resting on his cane. He nods, slowly and Wilson knows House understands. There's resolve on his face, but that sorrowing silence is finally gone.
House finally steps into the room and sits on his side of the bed.
Wilson lays down on his side, watching House get ready for bed.
House shakes the bottle, taking out a few of them, but instead of swallowing them, he clenches the bottle. He looks over at Wilson, eyes piercing, demanding a response.
“Why?”
“Most people would find joy in knowing their partner doesn't have to rely on drugs to feel something,” Wilson tries to deflect.
“Right. Except we’re not most people, and you never throw away old prescriptions. You're a hoarder. You would never empty your medicine cabinet. So, why?”
Wilson rolls onto his back. Facing the ceiling to avoid having to look at House. “You know why. You've made up your mind. You did the second you saw that empty cabinet.”
“I don't want to be right.”
Wilson rolls back, grabbing at House’s forearm. “I don't want you to be right either.”
“But I am.” Another statement posed as a question.
“...But, you are.”
They don't speak. House moves to lay beside him, and they’re both staring at each other, immobilized by their thoughts but grateful, at least, that they are not alone.
He nods off soon after, eyes closing to the sight of House’s furrowed brow.