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Saying that the past few days have been a mess would be an understatement.
Loading an unconscious House into his car and escorting him to his father’s funeral was not something Wilson would have seen himself doing less than a week ago.
He had tried to keep him at a distance, tried to stay away from him. He had told him straight to his face that he couldn’t and didn’t want to be his friend anymore. He knew that his decision was cruel — not only to House, but also to himself.
But he had promised Amber to take better care of himself, and House’s usual insensitive attitude didn’t mix well with the grief he was experiencing. And although he didn’t blame him for Amber's death, he couldn’t help but begin to despise his behavior. Or maybe that was just an excuse, it just-
It hurt too much.
So he quit his job and promised himself to keep the other man at a distance.
Yet here he was, crashing on the other man’s couch after having a few drinks too many. As wicked as it might sound, his trip to the funeral made him realize that he'd made a mistake. He missed his old job, his colleagues, and most importantly, his usual banter with House. The time spent with House was the most joy he'd felt since Amber's death. So he'd decided to come back. To his his old job. To House.
They'd gotten themselves some Chinese takeout and watched some soap rerun House chose on TV. The same old. One wouldn’t have suspected that less than three days ago their friendship was basically in ruins. But apparently, life had other plans, and so there he was, lying on his friend’s couch.
The couch was decent. Comfortable enough to sleep on. It felt familiar. He was glad he'd decided to come back to this.
House had gone to bed a while ago and was probably fast asleep by now. Wilson tried to get some sleep as well but couldn’t help thinking about the last few days.
The funeral had been two days ago. House didn’t seem too upset, which wasn’t really all that surprising. Wilson didn’t know the details of House’s relationship with his father, but it wasn’t a hard guess, or even a secret at that, that the two of them hadn’t gotten along well. House has made countless remarks over the years, some more concerning than others. But as always, with House it's hard to tell which were genuine and which just throwaway comments, even for Wilson.
He tried to recall if House ever mentioned something in particular, when his thoughts were suddenly interrupted by an odd, muffled sound.
At first, he was unsure what the noise was or even where it had come from. So he held still and listened. He dismissed it as some kind of animal outside after a moment. Maybe a raccoon or something of sorts, whatever. But then he heard it again. And it was louder than before.
This time Wilson realized that the sound seemed to be coming from down the hall. It sounded off, like someone trying to fight someone else off. Wilson frowned. Were these sounds coming from House? Had there been a break-in? He would have noticed someone entering through the front door. Maybe the burglar got in through the window in House’s bedroom? Wilson clumsily got up, instinctively grabbed one of the empty beer bottles on the living room table as a defense, turned on the lights, and swiftly walked down the hall towards House's bedroom.
Wilson quickly opened the door, flooding the room with light. He stood in the doorway with the bottle still clutched in his hands, ready to fight off the burglar, but he encountered nothing out of the ordinary. There was no fight and no mess of any sorts. The windows were closed shut, and House was lying alone in his bed.
Wilson relaxed his stance, letting his arms fall to the side. Maybe the noise really had just come from outside? He glanced at House, who was hidden beneath the sheets. He seemed to be asleep, but something looked off. Wilson took a step closer to bed, careful not to wake the other man.
House was drenched in sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. He was breathing heavily. With a troubled expression Wilson noted that House looked restless even in his sleep. He wondered whether House was in pain from his leg or whether he was having a nightmare. Should he wake him up? He knew that one shouldn’t wake someone from their nightmare, but it was impossible for him to know whether House was in pain or was having a nightmare.
Wilson's train of thoughts was interrupted by muffled groans. Not only that, House was starting to thrash in his sleep too. Wilson glanced at his friend with a concerned expression. He should wake him. He might worsen the pain in his leg with his sharp and sudden movements. By now, House was muttering something too. Wilson didn’t understand what he was saying, and as much as he would normally love to eavesdrop even for a bit, he couldn’t let House remain asleep like this. He leaned down and was about to put his hand on the other’s shoulder when House suddenly gasped awake. Wilson was startled by the sudden action but recovered quickly.
"House? Are you okay? You were making noises, I thought there was a burglar in here."
House remained silent but sat himself up. He was still breathing heavily. Wilson patiently waited for House to answer but grew concerned when the other hadn’t recovered his breath in any way within a minute. In fact, it seemed to have gotten worse.
"House?" he asked. A frown deeply engraved on his face.
Wilson reassuringly placed his hand on the other man’s shoulder. House visibly flinched, pressing his back hard against the headboard of the bed, as though trying to escape Wilson’s touch. He looked up at Wilson with an expression Wilson could only describe as frightened. Wilson quickly removed his hand and moved a few steps backwards, growing more concerned by the second. Maybe House really did have a nightmare.
Wilson just stood there and observed the other man for a moment. He was grabbing the front of his shirt with a shaky hand now, leaning forward. He was clearly struggling to breathe, nearing hyperventilation. This set of symptoms wasn’t new to Wilson. He had encountered countless panic attacks in his line of work before. After all, most people don’t tend to take a cancer diagnosis particularly well. Wilson sat down at the end of the bed, keeping a safe distance between him and the shaking man.
"House?" Wilson repeated. "Can you hear me? You’re having a panic attack. You need to take deep and slow breaths."
There was no reason to sugarcoat this for House. If he was aware of his surroundings at the moment, which Wilson very much hoped for, he knew exactly what was happening to him. Wilson only questioned his ability to cope with it in a not totally destructive way.
House shook his head. "D-don’t stop now… maybe narrate my… my death too", House gasped, glaring at him.
Wilson almost released a relieved sigh. The snarky response was a good sign. House wasn’t completely gone yet. To be honest, Wilson felt a bit at a loss for what to do. He knew House hated people trying to help him and getting into his business, but he couldn’t just get up and leave him alone in this state either. So he remained seated at the end of the bed, watching his friend closely. House’s breathing continued to deteriorate. It came in fits, each one more desperate than the last, as though his body couldn’t decide whether to inhale or exhale. Seeing House struggle like this pained him. He had to intervene somehow.
"House? Look at me?" Wilson requested, his voice probably too concerned for House's liking. House hesitantly did as he said, looking at him with desperate eyes that told Wilson that he was asking for help now.
"Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth," Wilson reminded. "I’ll count with you."
House nodded, attempting to slow his breath by following Wilson’s instructions. It took a while for his breathing to get better, House choking on his breath multiple times, but Wilson did help him calm down. His breathing didn’t sound as strained as before.
"Good, you’re doing well. Continue breathing like that." Wilson said calmly as he continued counting for him.
It took several minutes for House’s breathing to even out. Whilst the situation calmed, Wilson noticed that he has never seen House so vulnerable before. Yes, he’d found him in all kinds of problematic and concerning situations before, but never like this. Panicking, choking on his own breath. It was so unusual it felt almost uncharacteristic. And that’s what got Wilson really concerned.
House didn’t say anything, looking down at the hands in his lap instead. The trembling hadn’t subdued. He reached for the Vicodin sat on his bedside table and popped one into his mouth without even looking at it. Wilson frowned at this action but refrained from commenting on it.
"Are you okay?" Wilson asked, careful not to push too hard. The other’s habit of shutting these kinds of conversations down as soon as possible was something Wilson was very well aware of.
"Just peachy", House murmured, the sarcasm sounding forced.
"Nightmare?" Wilson asked softly, searching his friend’s face.
House remained silent, massaging his bad leg instead.
Wilson continued to observe him. House seemed to be in more pain than usual. Was it because of the thrashing? Or was his emotional pain manifesting itself physically again?
Wilson frowned.
Was it because of his father? Maybe his death bothered House more than he let on. Or maybe it wasn’t his death in particular that upset him like this, but the resurfacing memories his death brought back.
When he put his hand on his shoulder earlier he looked frightened. Not just uncomfortable by the touch, genuinely frightened. Like he was expecting harm.
Wilson felt sick for a moment. He had made him go to the funeral. Drugged him even, because of his refusal to attend.
"House, I-", Wilson started.
"Don’t even start", House interrupted, still massaging his leg. He seemed to be aware of where this conversation was heading.
"But-"
"Drop it ", House snapped, looking up at him now. Wilson didn’t look away.
"Go back to bed, Wilson", he continued, and despite his earlier tone, he sounded tired now.
Wilson was still sitting at the other end of the bed. He seemed conflicted, but hesitantly got up and moved towards the door.
"Good night House", he said quietly and pulled the door behind him shut, knowing there wouldn’t be an answer.