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The first time Wilson found House on the ledge of the hospital roof, he assumed it was just another one of his reckless stunts—some twisted attempt to provoke Wilson or prove his own invincibility.
Unfortunately, he was wrong. House wasn’t trying to prove he couldn’t be hurt. He was betting on the truth that he wasn’t invincible at all.
“House, what the hell are you doing?” Wilson asked, irritation threading through his voice. He was beyond tired of House’s antics.
“I didn’t leave a note,” House replied, his tone unexpectedly serious.
“A note? What are you talking about?” Wilson asked, rolling his eyes as he took a step closer to House.
House didn’t make any attempt to look at Wilson behind him. His eyes were focused on the ground. “I just wanted to say sorry. I just can’t do it anymore.”
Oh . House was serious. This was serious.
“House? Say sorry? What for?” Wilson asked, panic surging through him. He took another step closer, trying to catch a glimpse of House’s face, desperate to read what was going through his mind.
House finally glanced at Wilson, a faint, pitying smile tugging at his lips. “Missing me already?” he teased, then turned his gaze back to the drop below.
“House!” Wilson shouted, his heart racing. Just as House was about to step off the ledge, Wilson lunged forward, grabbing his arm and yanking him back.
House fell backward and onto Wilson, both of them stumbling slightly before crashing to the ground in a tangled heap.
“Seriously?” House snapped, his tone laced with annoyance.
Wilson’s heart pounded in his chest, a mix of anger and fear rising up inside him, each emotion battling for control. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He yelled, grabbing House by the collar of his shirt.
“Well, I was planning on dying, but now I’m just injured,” House said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he pulled himself out of Wilson’s grip. “You probably are, too.” He gestured to their tangled, scraped-up bodies, both of them bruised from the fall.
“House! Greg !” Wilson yelled, exasperation flooding his voice. “You were seriously going to kill yourself?”
“No, I was planning on taking flight and showing you my newest superpower,” House quipped, though a flicker of embarrassment flashed across his face as he glanced away.
Wilson just stared at House for a moment, trying to process what had just happened and figure out what to say or do next. He'd mourned House’s death countless times before, each close call chipping away at him, but he still hadn’t gotten used to it. The panic and disbelief never seemed to fade.
He settled on simply standing up, his hands shaking slightly, and pulled House to his feet, steadying him with a firm grip. He bent down to retrieve the cane that had been previously discarded, then handed it to House without a word.
House couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact, though Wilson’s gaze was fixed on him, pleading for some kind of connection. “I don’t want to talk about it,” He muttered quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. He regretted paging Wilson earlier to say his last goodbye, wishing now he hadn’t let the moment slip from his control.
Wilson suppressed a scoff, his chest tight with lingering anger. No . He shouldn’t get angry. That’s not what you do with someone who’s just tried to end their life—textbook 101, he reminded himself. But it didn’t make it any easier to swallow.
House suddenly groaned in pain, his body jolting as the reality of his situation hit him again. The sharp, relentless ache surged through him, reminding him why he’d ended up on that ledge in the first place. The pain was unbearable, and even with the Vicodin, it never truly went away. And of course the emotional or psychological pain, but he refused to acknowledge any of that.
"Let me take you home," Wilson said calmly, his voice steady but his eyes betraying the worry he couldn’t hide. It was the classic look—the kind of expression only an oncologist could wear.
House nodded slowly, letting go of his usual pride, accepting the help without protest. “I love you,” he murmured, his voice softer than usual, as if trying to reassure Wilson in the only way he knew how. The irony wasn’t lost on either of them. Here he was, the one who had just tried to end it all, yet somehow, he was the one offering comfort.
“Then don’t die,” Wilson replied bitterly, his voice sharp with frustration, though his hands were gentle as he helped House make his way back to the stairs.
When they arrived at House’s home, he fell into his usual routine, moving mechanically through the motions. Take off jacket, check. Throw keys on the counter, check. Check the fridge, check. He tried his best to mask the dread gnawing at him, knowing that sooner or later, he’d have to face the conversation he was dreading.
Wilson saw right through him. “You don’t have to say everything. Just tell me something,” he pleaded, his voice softer now, trailing after House like a puppy dog, unwilling to let him shut down completely.
House knew this was the best offer he was going to get. He let out a heavy sigh and walked toward Wilson, finally meeting his eyes—the eye contact Wilson had been silently pleading for.
"My leg hurts. It’s worse than usual this past week. And my brain—" House paused, his voice tight, "I don’t want to talk about that part of it. Probably just got mental health issues, like you do. I know you’re gonna want to scramble to fix all of this, but not tonight, please?"
Of course he didn’t want to talk about the most vulnerable part of it all. He barely wanted to acknowledge it himself.
Wilson, too, knew this was the best he was going to get—for now, at least. He’d find a way to get House to open up eventually, but not tonight.
"Okay," he said softly, accepting the fragile honesty. Without another word, he pulled House into a hug, holding him tightly, as if trying to offer the comfort House couldn’t ask for. “I love you too.”
Pulling his upper body slightly away from House but keeping his arms around him, Wilson gazed into his eyes, searching for something—anything—behind the walls House had built. When House looked away, Wilson gently cupped his face, his thumb brushing across his cheek. He pressed his lips gently against House’s in a soft, lingering kiss. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against House’s, closing his eyes.
“You hungry?” Wilson finally asked, his voice lighter now, a small smile tugging at his lips as he kept his arms wrapped around House. "I’m staying over tonight."
House chuckled and pulled away from Wilson’s embrace. “I’ll make us something.”
They didn’t talk about it for the rest of the night.