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Pain is a friend he’s used to, an annoyingly cruel loyal one, from the infarction to self-inflicted scars, there’s nothing that can hurt him in a way he hasn't been hurt in the past. But he's only human, and humans are bound to fail.
The pain is worse than usual, he feels it in the morning when he wakes up. Sitting up burns, he’s working up a sweat simply walking to the bathroom. He looks like shit—when does he not?—as he looks into the mirror. His hair is messed up and thinning—age and opiods do that to you—he wore a gray band t-shirt that does nothing to hide the scars over his arms, from deep keloids to cat scratches, each one its own dramatic flair. All lighter than his already pale, sweaty, deathly skin.
He takes four vicodin dry and chases it with mouthwash and calls it a day. He doesn’t even change from his pajamas—a loose t-shirt and boxers—he decides is not good to wear to a hospital so he throws on some sweats and then simply throws on a blazer he believes is clean–it smells fine–and opts for slippers instead when his leg throbbed when he tried to tie his shoes, much like a pregnant woman will.
Though less with the parasite in his uterus and a craving for pickles in strawberry jam, really.
The motorcycle is a no-go for his thigh, so he goes for his car, going through the painstaking act of getting situated into the driver’s seat all while trying not to puke vicodin and bile. When all is said and done, he’s met with an empty gas tank. He bangs his head on the steering wheel, again, and again, and again—reminding himself why he shouldn’t kill himself right then and now.
Unfortunately there weren’t many reasons other than ‘Wilson’.
Weird.
Motorcycle it had to be then.
How splendid, as the British would say.
He walks into the clinic with a permanent scowl, the bright hospital lights doing nothing to his already sour mood. Worse when a familiar perfume-ridden harpy catches him immediately. Like a hawk to a mouse, he swears. He can’t even limp away fast enough before she catches him, heels fast. “You’re late.” She bitches, standing behind him. He turns around slowly, facing her.
“And you look like a whore in that skirt.” He snarls. Cuddy huffs but doesn’t rise to the bait, holding a file he snatches without reading and walks away before she begins to speak again. Unfortunately, she’s still faster, meaning out-running her feels like a baby attempting to crawl away. At least he feels like one currently. She blocks his path to the elevator, hands on her hips. He avoids the urge to roll his eyes, leaning heavier on his cane. Sometimes he wishes he didn’t overuse the excuse of being in pain to get out of Cuddy’s jaws, because now it’s not an excuse, it’s real.
But much like the boy who cried wolf, that won’t work anymore.
“Are you okay?” She asks. Now, what does House hate more than anger?
Pity.
And boy does Cuddy wear it like the floral perfume she bathes in every morning.
She cares about you and you can’t take it.
He scowls down at her.
“I’m fine. Can I go do my job now?” He asks snarkily. She gives him a once over before sighing and stepping out of his way, not before grabbing him by the arm to get one last word.
“Tell me if anything.. comes up.” She says. Her version of: Come to me if you need help.
As if House’s pride and ego would allow him to do such thing.
Each step feels like hell when he walks off without a word, and when he enters the elevator, he pops another few vicodin for good luck, even though it feels like he’s popping sugar tablets now, shit doesn’t even do anything anymore. Not today, at least.
His vision swims when he steps out of the elevator, leg deciding to simply lock up and almost send him falling on his face. But his face remained unharmed if it wasn’t thanks to the random nurse who saw him. Definitely new blood, all the nurses in this hospital wish him death and would rather lose their job than help him. He doesn't blame her, or all of them. He sometimes—all times—even tires himself out.
He shakes her off and walks away, and whether she said something or not, he doesn’t hear it. But the file in his hands is missing, so unfortunately he does have to turn around to snatch the files in the nurse’s hands before turning back to make yet another getaway to the diagnostics room.
The ducklings are chatting around the glass table enjoying breakfast as if patients aren’t dying. Right now their happiness gets on his nerves. And much like the grinch who stole christmas, he has to ruin it. He slaps the files onto the table, knocking over a plastic coffee cup that spills onto Chase’s pants. Oh well. They were ugly anyways.
“What the fuck, House!” The Australian jumps out of the chair to save what is left of his five-hundred dollar, gold-plated, spider-silk woven pants, or whatever rich people buy. He ignores him, popping open a pen cap to begin writing symptoms on the whiteboard. Or, those he could read while his brain begs for rest.
Rest he would not give it.
The only rest he would ever allow himself was if he was six feet under in a casket he does not deserve.
“Are you okay, House?” Asks Miss Empathetic, catching onto his vulnerabilities like a shark finding blood.
“Peachy.” He replies breathlessly.
Chase is still scrubbing helplessly at the coffee stain on his pants. Thank god it wasn’t by the crotch, only by the thigh.
He isn't that evil.
“Right, because ‘peachy’ includes sweating like you ran a marathon and we all know you can’t do that.” Foreman snips in with a dry chuckle, commentary snarky enough to almost get a laugh out of him. Almost. Though Cameron does turn to Foreman as if the man just admitted to liking Hitler.
“Didn’t know today was “Get-All-Up-In-My-Business Day, if only I knew.” He snarks back.
After Chase is done being a girl about his pants, they get to diagnosing. Though mid-writing his leg locks up again, making his hand writing shaky and basically makes standing hard. The vicodin in his system does not react kindly to an empty stomach.
But what can you do?
Outside noises suddenly muffle, and he finds himself idly stroking his thigh, willing it to go away. But like an obsessive ex, (Stacy) it all goes to hell. Because pain doesn’t give a shit. Vaguely, he hears the sound of chair screenching and someone getting up.
“Okay, I’m going to go and get W-“
“No, you aren’t.” He hisses, looking at Foreman with a sharp, deathly glare. Foreman matches his stare with the same sharpness.
“No, Foreman’s right House, you’re in pain, we should at least get someone!” The ever so helpful female of the group frets. God, is she still into him? He hopes not, he doesn’t want to give her a whole new speech he somehow had the ability to spit out without laughing in her face. He rolls his eyes, failing to find purchase on the slippery whiteboard. For a moment he thinks he fell on the ground, but Chase, much like the prodigal son he is, was able to catch him, holding him up just enough to keep him scrabbling from the ground. It’s a whole dramatic scene, Cameron is gasping like she witnessed him getting shot—again—Foreman is grumbling curses and leaving—possibly to go through his threat—and Chase, even though House ruined his pants, is asking if he’s okay.
“Yes Chase, my fucking leg locked up and sent me falling, I’m just splendid today, how about you?” He deadpans, using the glass table to keep himself upright. The blonde man huffs, but stays near as if House would fall again. He hates how he loves the sentiment. Stupid feelings, making him feel all gooey and soft.
“Okay, okay, forget I asked.” Blondie murmurs, rolling his eyes. Cameron comes back—when had she left?—with a plastic coffee cup he hopes isn’t full of coffee but whiskey, though the scent of coffee begs to differ unfortunately, and a reuben sandwich, even more unfortunately—to his liking. Chase forces him to sit down like he’s an old grandpa needing guidance, but it ends up doing wonders for his thigh. Again, unfortunately.
He’s got to bitch at least once. Can’t let them know he cares.
“Here, I doubt you’ve eaten anything.” She says. Then, pagers beep and blondie goes running, though Cameron stays to sneak something out of her pocket. Vicodin. In a plastic baggie, definitely stolen. He can’t help but chuckle.
He's definitely In pain.
“My, my, when did you learn to steal?” He takes the plastic baggie, counts sixteen little tablets. Huh. He might just give her a raise. Maybe.
She huffs. “You’re a bad influence.” She retorts, before giving him a smile and leaving to follow her pager.
When one leaves another walks in, Wilson, standing by the door, arms crossed over his chest, walking towards House sat near the conference table, munching on the sandwich. Its good, it always is. Tastes like it was made by his favorite lady, Alicia. He doesn’t know why, she could be the most unhygienic woman he’s ever known, but damn can she make a sandwich. He wonders if he could pay her for the recipe… though it wouldn’t taste the same.
“A little duckling told me you were in pain.” Starts Wilson, taking a seat next to House, manspreading. House wonders when Wilson became attractive. Of course Wilson was attractive, conventionally so. Warm, inviting, kind cocoa eyes, a bright, deceiving smile that you would never believe could hold malicious intent, and an overall great body, he takes care of himself well. Unlike House.
But this feeling feels.. different. Intimate. He hums, taking longer to chew on his bite to refrain from answering. “Well, I do teach them to lie.” He replies, suddenly finding a stray breadcrumb on the glass table very interesting. Wilson hums, too knowing for his own good. He’s mindlessly chewing on the same bite of food he’s had for hours before he swallows dryly, following it with the coffee Cameron got him. Dark, with just a hint of sugar and cream. Observant, his ducklings. He does a stray look over at Wilson who is just watching him, warm brown eyes cascading over his form, a soft smile almost always plastered on his ridiculous face.
“Whether or not they lied, you look like shit.” Comments the younger brunette leaning against his propped up fist. House snorts into his coffee, swallowing before it tries to kill him. Thankfully it wasn’t boiling hot, simply warm, though he almost wishes for the burning sensation, if anything to give him something new to focus on apart from the new golden hue Wilson’s eyes have gotten from the dying sun behind him. God, it’s so unfair how beautiful he is. Disgustingly so, House believed. He rolls his eyes.
“Don’t I always.” He mutters. Wilson hums.
“Why don’t you let yourself be taken care of, House? We care about you, you know.” Comments the other, reaching for the other half of the reuben sandwich House allows him to take. He’s greedy when it comes to food, but with Wilson, its different. Wilson could have his fucking heart for all House knows. He’d crack his ribcage open and let Wilson grab whatever he desired—and he doesn’t like what that says about him. Or his feelings. Feelings he wants to erase and destroy. House puts down the coffee cup to pick the sandwich up again, taking another bite, another cowardly attempt to stall speaking. What can he even say? That he doesn’t deserve to be taken care of? That every time someone does something nice for him it reminds him of how he knows he’ll fail them?
Or how he doesn’t want to look weak in front of the only person who’s ever stayed this long?
“I’m fine.” He grins. He feels.. better than how he did in the morning. He doesn’t need to be coddled like a baby—but oh how he wants someone to hold him, to tell him it’s okay, he’s okay—or anything of that sort. “You can return to your bald kids now.” He waves off, using the table to get up. Though it seems ‘fine’ was a huge understatement, as the moment he puts weight on his right leg it all comes crashing down. And by crashing down, he means it’s him about to fall, and for the millionth time there is someone picking him up, this time it’s Wilson, holding him close. “Fuck.” He hisses, knuckles grinding against his thigh, begging, pleading, willing the pain to just leave him alone, one day is all he wants. All he’ll beg for.
“Get off of me.” He pushes Wilson off of him, batting away Wilson’s worried hands. But the other is relentless. With others it takes a cruel insult or a threat to get them to back of, but Wilson takes them all with stride and barges in, uncaring.
“No, you’re in pain, and-“
“I’m always in pain, Wilson, don’t you get it!?” he yells, pushing Wilson off of him harder. “Nothing will stop the pain, nothing! I’m going to die in pain, Wilson. I’m going to die alone and in agony because everyone who ever got near me have left.” He sobs. He doesn’t even know how it got this bad, maybe he should’ve stayed home and overdosed in his bed, alone. Wilson looked at him with worried amber eyes, and House can’t look at him for long, head held down in shame as he painfully bends down to grab the cane that toppled down onto the floor. Breathing feels hard, and Wilson hasn’t moved until now, grabbing House by the arm like that would stop him from leaving.
“I’m not leaving, House.” He says. They’ve all said that.
Stacy said that.
The moment he lost who he was, she too left.
They all leave.
They always do.
“I’m not leaving.” He reiterates firmly, hands moving to grab House by the shoulders. “I’m not going anywhere, House.” He promises. House looks at him, Wilson looks back. He nods. Wilson hugs him, and House hugs him back, he digs his hands into Wilson’s white hospital coat, and Wilson doesn’t comment on it. They stand there for a while, before parting. Wilson gives him a little smile, and House matches with his own one, private, theirs. He doesn’t know what it means yet, but does it need to mean something to be theirs?
Together, they leave the hospital, passing by patients, nurses, and doctors like its nothing. They get into Wilson's car, House sat in the passenger seat like he belongs there, reaching into the pocket of his jeans, taking four of the few pills in the little baggie Cameron gave him, a baggie he thankfully remembered to take with him before they left the hospital. Wilson gets in his car, and they drive away to House’s apartment. The car ride is silent, eerily so, House moving his chair back to give him the small availability to stretch his leg—the good one—when he notices they pass by a McDonald’s. “Wait! Wait, wait, go back!” He gasps, practically jumpscaring Wilson with the sudden noise from the impossibly silent man.
“Jesus, House! I’m driving!” Wilson huffs, turning to face the man for a split second before returning his eyes to the road. “Also I’m not getting you McDonald’s.” He says then, making House whine and groan much like a child, arms crossed over his chest, pouting and sulking.
“Oh don’t pout at me like that, I’m not turning the car around.” He states firmly, a silent fight between wills.
….
House gets the McDonald’s he asks for a while later before they are on the road again, House enjoyably munching on fries and nuggets and a shake and a burger and-
“I don’t know how you can even like that. Its so gross.” Wilson comments with a shake of his head before he parks in front of House’s apartment complex. House only hums, stuffing his mouth full of greasy, salty fries with a big grin on his face, cheeks stuffed like a hamster.
“Well, at least I don’t pretend to enjoy quinoa salad.” Retorts the older brunette, making Wilson huff as he gets out of the car, followed by House, who leaves the wrappers where they are for Wilson to clean up later, only taking his oreo milkshake with him as he trails behind Wilson.
"Quinoa salad is good!" Wilson defends, walking in front of House.
His leg doesn’t hurt that much, maybe it’s the sugar and fat in his system giving him a boost, as well as the few vicodin he took—maybe it wasn’t vicodin—or whatnot. Wilson has his house key, of course he does, House doesn’t remember when he gave him a copy, but he doesn’t find that he minds that much. He noisily slurps his milkshake as Wilson seems to struggle with the lock, before realizing he has the wrong key and going through a whole keyring—who needs that many keys?—before they finally make it inside.
Home sweet home, as they say.
“When was the last time you cleaned?” Wilson gags, covering his nose as he walks through the threshold of the living room to find a window. “and when is the last time you opened the window?” He nags, opening the blinds and the window to let fresh air and light inside. House groans, towing off his shoes by the door and hanging up his blazer, backpack kicked somewhere near the door—maybe—before he goes over to the couch to lay down in, leg acting up again.
“Maybe I’m a vampire Wilson.” He jokes, voice muffled by the pillow he face-planted on. Wilson, though House can’t see it, rolls his eyes.
“I’m going to get you your heating pad, and hire a cleaning crew or.. something.” He voices, standing in front of the couch, hands on his hips like the nagging mother he was born to be. He grumbles, turning to his side to stick his tongue out at Wilson. Cause he can. Wilson doesn’t fall for the bait. “Do you still keep your heating pad in the closet?” he asks, walking over to the closet, footsteps heavy. House hides a smile as when Wilson opens the door a bunch of old shit comes pouring out. God he wishes he saw that, unfortunately his leg is less than adamant on caring, so Wilson’s scream will have to do.
“House! What the hell!?”
He laughs, a first since this shitty day started.
He thinks he might just enjoy having Wilson so close.