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It starts as most things do in House’s life these days; with an idea of a devious prank that is sure to fuck with Wilson. If House could manage to sneak onto Wilson’s computer, that is.
Hah. “If”. Breaking into anything of Wilson’s is easier than stealing candy from a baby when your name is Dr. Gregory House. All he has to do is claim that he’s staying late for a case, and then unlock Wilson’s door with the key he’s had copied for years. Wilson gave up on changing his passwords in his various attempts to keep House from hacking in, so getting into his computer is also no problem. Before offloading the files in his USB though, House decides to do some light snooping. You know, as friends do. And he ends up finding something.
Wilson’s most recently closed tabs are… interesting. House might even say they’re concerning if he didn’t know any better, but he does know better, because there’s no way Dr. James Wilson is suicidal. He’s… he’s probably just concerned about an oncologist friend of his. Yeah.
No. House isn’t stupid.
doctor suicide rates
highest rates of suicide per medical specialty
suicide rates among oncologists
suicidal ideation among oncologists
warning signs of suicide
warning signs of suicidal behavior among oncologists
case studies of suicide in oncologists
suicide methods with lowest rate of failure
i’m not suicidal
how to get rid of google suicide helpline suggestion
get rid of google suicide restrictions
uncensored search engines
House switches over to the new browser icon that he’d failed to notice earlier. It’s filled with similar searches and webpage after webpage of suicide methods and forums.
He starts noticing more things after that day.
Wilson doesn’t always come into work with a tie these days. Sometimes, his shirt is unironed, or his hair is a bit messy. He’s quieter than usual. Doesn’t push back against House’s pranks nearly as much as he should, doesn’t make much of an effort to engage in any sort of conversation or discussion House brings up, no matter how inflammatory the topic is.
It’s unnerving.
So that’s when House starts Operation: Figure Out What The Fuck Is Wrong With James Wilson Before He Shoots Himself In The Head, in which his primary goal is to observe one James Wilson as closely as possible, determine the cause of Wilson’s suicidality, and remove it.
To the surprise of absolutely no one, Operation FOWTFIWWJWBHSHITH (conveniently shortened to Operation: WTF) does not go spectacularly.
“Doesn’t it ever get to you?” House prods, none too gentle about it. Wilson’s brows furrow, but he doesn’t look up from his papers. House waltzed into Wilson’s office about two seconds ago, just after his last patient of the day left, ready to start phase one of Operation WTF (phase one being trying to get Wilson to voluntarily talk about his emotional torment).
“Doesn’t what ever get to me?” he parrots back, shuffling through the stack of forms until he comes across whatever it is he’s looking for.
“The patients, their hopeless eyes, the heart wrenching pain the parents carry when they find out little Claire is dying of incurable cancer…” House drones, keeping his voice bored and detached even as Wilson snaps his head up. “The smell of antiseptic and despair, watching chemo suck the life out of another person--“
“What the hell are you talking about?” Wilson cuts in, forcefully placing his papers back on his desk. He glares angrily at House, though the look fails to hide his confusion.
“Nothing,” House says, holding his hands up, feigning innocence and cluelessness. “Just figured a hotshot oncologist boy-wonder like you would get worn down by all this. Getting shoved patient after patient, giving people their death sentence while surrounded by trinkets from the grateful who’ve since passed away.”
“What do you wan-- what’s the point of this? What are you trying to get from this?” Wilson demands. House shrugs.
“Lost a bet,” he dismisses. “Have to check in about your emotional well being, or whatever.”
“Hell of a way to go about it,” Wilson mutters, rolling his eyes and turning back to his work with a dejected air about him.
“Well?” House asks, raising his eyebrows.
“‘Well’ what?” Wilson asks, filling out a patient info form absentmindedly.
“Your emotional well being,” House says, putting both hands on his cane and leaning heavily against it with a huff. “What’s up with it?”
“Nothing,” Wilson shrugs. “I’m as fine as any oncologist can be.”
“Right, oncologists, renowned for their mental well being,” House deadpans. Wilson keeps his eyes on his papers and makes a shooing motion at House.
“Be gone with ye,” he mutters, “I’m fine, go solve whatever case-of-the-week is currently haunting you.”
And normally, House would poke and prod Wilson a bit more until he breaks, but then House realizes that “haunting” could be precisely what’s plaguing his patient, and goes off on his hurried, merry way to badger his fellows about it, leaving Wilson alone in his office once again.
House and Wilson are having lunch together, again, per usual. House’s lunch is on Wilson, though he’s already inhaled the whole tray and is now hungrily eyeing the fries on Wilson’s plate. Then, he remembers that this is Wilson, and House reaches over to snatch up a handful. To his surprise, Wilson doesn’t even bother fighting House’s blatant thievery. Not even a slap on the wrist.
“What’s the matter?” House asks, narrowing his eyes, “Got nothing to say about my life of crime?”
Wilson shrugs thoughtlessly.
“You’d have stolen my fries anyway,” he says simply, “No use in fighting it anymore.”
“Not even going to remind me of my thousands of dollars of debt to you? Call me an ass?”
Wilson shakes his head.
“You know I don’t really mind,” Wilson explains. “As a matter of fact, here, have the rest. I should be cutting back on fried foods anyways.”
House takes the offered tray slowly and suspiciously, intentionally eating as loudly and obnoxiously as possible in an attempt to draw some sort of reaction from Wilson, who is simply staring dejectedly towards the distance. He hadn’t even bothered to correct House’s “thousands of dollars” to “tens of thousands” like he usually did.
House decides to follow Wilson’s gaze, twisting to look behind himself. It’s the employee recognition award wall. Wilson’s on there a handful of times; he’s on there more than anyone else, actually, but he’s looking at it with dejection and disdain.
House pushes the tray back towards Wilson, now empty of most of the fries and half a sandwich.
“Keep your energy up,” he says, “You’ve got three consults back-to-back this afternoon.”
Wilson sighs, gingerly picking up a single fry. His face crumples as he chews, and he quickly reaches for a paper napkin, spitting the half-chewed fry into it and tucking it onto the tray.
“I think I’ll hold out for now,” Wilson decides. “Want any more?”
House stares at the food on the tray for a second or two, but ends up shaking his head. Wilson nods silently, and gets up with the tray, throwing out the food on his way to exit the cafeteria.
House takes an obnoxiously long sip from his soda cup as he ponders the interaction. Someone across the cafeteria frowns at his manners. He takes another obnoxious sip before tossing the whole thing out and limping back to his office.
“Have this,” Wilson says, shoving a fidget toy into House’s hands. They’re on lunch break, but neither of them are hungry, so they’re killing time in Wilson’s office together as Wilson procrastinates paperwork and House procrastinates his new case. House takes a second to examine the toy, turning it over in his hands before placing it back on Wilson’s desk.
“I don’t want it,” he decides. Wilson shakes his head.
“Yes you do, you’ve been eyeing it ever since I got it,” Wilson says, pushing the toy back towards House. House uses the handle of his cane to push it back. The plastic squeaks along the polished wood of the desk, loud in the otherwise silent office.
“Take the damn toy, House,” Wilson growls. The fidget toy is forcefully shoved across the desk once again, still squeaking in protest. House scowls, pushing it back again with the handle of his cane until it falls off of Wilson’s side of the desk, hitting the floor with a thud.
“Why do you want me to have the toy so badly?” House asks quizzically. His eyes narrow as he examines Wilson’s face. He’s wearing a guilty expression, slightly worried, all poorly hidden because Wilson wears his heart out on his sleeve. “Hid a mic in there? Filled it with lice?”
“No, no,” Wilson mutters, shaking his head and sparing a glance down at the floor where the toy now rests. His heel hits the floor with a quickly-paced thump thump thump as he bounces his knee, cringing whenever it goes too high and hits the sharp inner edge of his desk. “I’m just feeling generous.”
Generous? Not suicidal? Not giving away your worldly possessions? House wants to ask, but, in an unusual act of self-restraint, he bites his tongue.
“I don’t think you should be,” House says, producing a familiar and exasperated expression on Wilson’s face.
“But—”
“Keep your toys to yourself, God knows where you’ve put them,” House sneers, pushing himself out of the chair, taking pride in Wilson’s affronted look. He staggers out of the office, making a point to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut as he downs a Vicodin pill and moves about his day.
The following week, House finds Wilson drinking in his office. The cork to the wine bottle is balanced precariously on the edge of House’s desk, and it appears that Wilson’s made his way through at least half the bottle already.
House closes the door to his office behind him slowly, ambling over to his orange recliner, eyeing the drunken man on the floor.
“I failed her,” Wilson slurs suddenly, letting his head loll to the side. “I should’ve-- Should’ve noticed… damn metastasis.”
His bottle falls to the floor with a clatter. It would’ve shattered if he’d been standing, but as it is, he’s slumped against the office wall with a flushed face and watering eyes. The wine bleeds onto the carpet. It’ll probably be a bitch to clean out. House’s mouth flattens into a thin, uncomfortable line when Wilson’s shoulders start shaking as a dry sob falls from his lips.
“Could you drive me back?” Wilson asks, his voice scratchy and broken. “T’ the hotel. Car keys are… y’ prolly already have ‘em, huh?”
“You want to go back to the hotel?” House asks, sounding deadpan and mildly disgusted. “At least my office isn’t mildewed. It’s even got ceilings made of real wood and plaster instead of asbestos.”
Wilson doesn’t respond, his reddened eyes wandering aimlessly over House’s face.
“S‘bestos raises cancer risk,” he mutters.
“I wonder how you knew that, Mr. Oncologist,” House says, poking Wilson’s leg with his cane. Wilson’s face crinkles as a fresh round of tears slips down his cheeks.
“M’be I should live there f’rever…” Wilson muses. “Get what’s coming t’ me.”
“What’s coming to you?” House asks with narrowed eyes, though he already knows the answer.
“Karma. Cancer,” Wilson says. “For all the people I couldn’t save.”
Well, if nothing else, it’s some new information and therefore some progress for Operation WTF.
House ends up taking the keys to Wilson’s car and drives them both to his apartment, where Wilson is half-dragged, half-carried to the couch in his drunken stupor. House leaves the keys to the car on the coffee table. They and Wilson are gone by the morning, and there’s a bowl of quickly cooling oatmeal on the kitchen counter.
House tries not to think about it too hard.
House and Wilson are having dinner together tonight after House’s incessant prodding. It’s phase two of Operation WTF: corner Wilson and force him to get talking. House takes his motorcycle down to his apartment, while Wilson drives over to the grocery store to pick up some actual ingredients. Once Wilson gets back and starts to cook, House hops onto the sofa and turns on the TV. He’s lulled to sleep after a few moments thanks to the low hum of the TV and (not that he’d ever admit it’s comforting) the comforting sound of his best friend cooking in the room over.
An hour later, he’s woken abruptly by a loud ad, and turns his head this way and that, vaguely disoriented by his post-work nap. He pops a pill out of habit, and forces himself off of the sofa with a pained grunt, taking note of the warm light emanating from the kitchen and the delicious smell of Wilson’s cooking. He slowly makes his way to the kitchen entrance, wondering what Wilson’s decided to make, and situates himself near the table…
… right as Wilson stabs himself in the forearm with the knife.
“What the hell are you doing?” House shouts, hobbling angrily over to Wilson. Wilson’s mouth opens and closes like that of a fish as he stares at his arm, completely dumbfounded. The knife slips from his grasp, clattering onto the cutting board harshly and bruising a few of the zucchini slices that have been laid out.
“I… I--” he stutters, blinking confusedly. “I don’t know.”
House leans himself and his cane against the edge of the kitchen counter, taking Wilson’s arm in his hand and examining it. It’s not spraying, but it is bleeding heavily, and it’s pretty decently long. The skin split open just along the radial artery, and House knows that once they wash out the cut, he’ll be able to see it beat in time with Wilson’s heart. House takes note of the singular pot on the stove, and quickly turns the flame off before tugging Wilson towards the kitchen sink and twisting the faucet handle on. Once he deems it sufficiently washed out, he takes a rag (it’s probably filthy, but that’s a problem for later), and applies firm pressure over the cut, taking Wilson’s hand and placing it over the rag.
“Press down,” House says simply, taking Wilson by the elbow and guiding the man into the bathroom. Wilson follows, still somewhat out of it. Soon enough, they’re both standing in front of the sink, Wilson keeping his arm up and applying pressure with the rag as House rummages around his cabinets for the first aid kit. He gets to work quickly and wordlessly once the bleeding has slowed.
“What the hell were you thinking?” House mutters, angrily dabbing iodine around the edges of the wound. Wilson’s nose scrunches up every time some of the yellow stuff accidentally gets into the cut.
“I don’t know,” he admits, sounding defeated. He props up his free elbow on the edge of the sink, letting his head fall against his open hand with a tired sigh. “I was just… I was trying to cut the zucchini, and then the knife was in my arm.”
“Conveniently landing a few millimeters away from your radial artery?” House asks, prodding none-too-gently at the open wound, watching the pulsating muscle around the artery before pinching the edges of the wound closed and slapping on several steri-strips. Relief washes over him when he digs around the first-aid kit and finds the miraculous last sheet of tegaderm hiding between a few bandaids, and he carefully layers it over the steri-strips on Wilson’s arm.
“Should keep you from bleeding out until we get you to the nearest urgent care,” he says, letting Wilson’s arm go. It falls limply to Wilson’s side before his brain kicks in and he raises it, keeping it above his heart to prevent excessive blood flow.
“We’re not going to Princeton Plainsboro,” Wilson says firmly. House rolls his eyes.
“It’ll end up on your medical record no matter which hospital you turn to, you may as well stick with people you know,” he argues pointedly. Wilson shakes his head.
“I could get Cameron to do it, off the books. She’s good at it,” House mentions. Wilson looks like he’s about to shake his head again, but then he gets this god-awful look on his face. Like he’s just swallowed a peeled lemon.
“How do you know that?” Wilson asks cautiously. House gives him a tired look.
“How do you think I know that?” he spits back with a semi-mocking tone. Wilson’s face turns from sour to painfully soft and open and empathetic and it makes House want to gag.
“House…” he starts, his brows furrowing in that stupid, heartfelt-concerned expression of his. House cuts him off immediately.
“It was well over a year ago, and we’re not talking about it,” he interrupts. “Do you want me to call her over to help stitch you up or not?”
“Okay,” Wilson concedes with a slow nod of his head. “Sure, I can… I can deal with that.”
Cameron ignores House’s calls, but picks up when Wilson rings her on his number, and the two men eventually convince her to drive out to House’s apartment at 9 PM on a Tuesday. She asks too many questions for House’s taste, and Wilson fills her in as much as possible without revealing that this was kind of sort of done on purpose.
“Have you considered speaking with the on-site counselor at PPTH?” Cameron asks gently, wrapping up Wilson’s arm with soft gauze. Her stitching was efficient and beautifully done. Almost a shame to cover it up. Wilson shakes his head in response to her question.
“Nothing to talk about,” he says simply. Cameron’s eyes look worried, but she doesn’t push much beyond that.
She and House argue in the foyer, and are none too quiet about it. Wilson waits guiltily at the table, hunching over a bit when the door slams shut as Cameron storms back to her car. He takes his leave shortly afterwards with quiet, stuttered apologies as he makes his way out the door. It feels like he and House are dancing around each other, and he’s just stepped all over House’s feet while wearing six-inch stilettos.
That night, House eats half of a zucchini, and he scrubs the bloodstained cutting board the best he can before giving up and tossing it in the back of some drawer he’ll probably never open again. Phase two of Operation WTF didn’t go as well as he’d hoped.
Maybe that night is what does it for House. He can handle a lot of things, like Wilson drinking himself into a stupor and being strangely compliant with House’s blatant thievery, but catching Wilson in the midst of self-harming is another thing altogether, and it totally ruined phase two of Operation WTF. So now House is standing outside of Wilson’s office door, cane raised as though he were about to knock, but then he thinks better of it and simply barges in. Wilson makes a vague hum of acknowledgment, not even bothering to look up. House ambles closer to Wilson’s desk.
“Come over for dinner,” House says, poking Wilson with his cane. Wilson sighs, shaking his head.
“I can’t tonight, I’m busy,” he says, dragging his pen half-heartedly over a paper to lazily sign it.
“Busy with what?” House asks, incredulous. “Hosting a party in that shitty hotel room of yours? Got early reservations at the continental breakfast tomorrow?” Planning your suicide?
Wilson frowns, letting his pen fall onto the desk with a clatter.
“I’m busy, Greg,” he emphasizes, keeping his eyes on his desk. House rolls his eyes.
“No you’re not,” House says, poking Wilson’s side with his cane again, albeit a bit more harshly this time. Wilson flinches back. “Come over for dinner.”
“I don’t suppose you’ll be doing any of the cooking?” he mutters rhetorically. House lets half a grin slip through his face.
“Where’s the fun in that?” he asks. Wilson looks up at him with tired, tired eyes. Like a kicked puppy. Or a suicidal oncologist who needs to help people more than anything else, and who better to help than Gregory House? House always needs something; Wilson’s always ready to give. Now, Wilson needs something, and House has to reverse-psychologize him into accepting help.
“Give me a few more minutes to wrap this up,” Wilson says, folding under House’s very light glare, tucking a few papers into his file cabinet and messing around on his computer. House stands there expectantly, taking note of one of Wilson’s many tabs starting with “sui”. Wilson looks up at him and makes a shooing motion and House rolls his eyes, taking his leave so that Wilson can “wrap up” (read: close out of his half-dozen poorly hidden google tabs inquiring about suicide).
They drive to House’s apartment after a short-lived argument consisting of House’s half-assed attempt to get Wilson on his motorcycle.
“What do you have in the apartment?” Wilson asks once they’re on the road.
“Canned soup and a rotting apple,” House replies simply, reveling in Wilson’s immediate pinched face of disgust.
“No peanut butter?”
“Got moldy.”
Wilson sighs a long-suffering sigh before flipping on his turn signal, turning onto a vaguely familiar street.
“We’re going to the supermarket,” he says decisively, and House doesn’t argue, though he makes a point to grumble about having to get out of the car with his bad leg. Wilson seems strangely lost once they’re in the store, filling up their shopping cart in a mechanical fashion and laying it all out on the conveyor belt in a daze. He doesn’t even bother to try to get House to pay for the groceries.
They get to the apartment soon enough. Wilson goes through the motions of making stuffed peppers in that same dazed, mechanical fashion of his as House watches from the living room couch. Wilson’s so… not present. It’s disturbing. House temporarily entertains the idea of walking into the kitchen and jacking off to try to rouse some sort of reaction from his zombified friend.
They eat in silence.
Wilson doesn’t do the dishes. He just leaves his plate on the coffee table, then gets up to snatch his jacket off the back of House’s couch.
“Woah, there, where do you think you’re going?” House asks, craning his neck to spot Wilson fumbling around to try to get his shoes on.
“Home,” Wilson states simply.
“You mean your hotel room,” House retaliates. “I’ve got a perfectly good couch, you know. And leftovers. Beer. I even have a TV with a working remote!”
Wilson laughs in that very particular manner he has when he’s feeling bitter and worn thin. He looks down at House with jaded eyes.
“I’m not sleeping on your couch,” he says, “There’s probably more semen on it than there is in my hotel bed.”
“Well, at least I clean it,” House mutters. Wilson shakes his head again, drawing his lips into a thin, pinched line.
“I’m heading out now,” he says. House waits for the, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow’, but it doesn’t come, even as Wilson finishes putting on his shoes and has his hand on the doorknob.
“I’m seeing you tomorrow, right?” House asks, still craning his neck to see Wilson. Wilson hesitates, exhaling slowly.
“Sure,” he concedes softly, nodding. He doesn’t look at House. House scowls.
“Don’t leave,” House demands. This does get Wilson to turn around, an odd look etched on his face.
“Contrary to your beliefs, I do need to sleep, House,” Wilson says, furrowing his brows as he examines House, who is painfully aware of the minute desperation that’s leaking through his own traitorous face.
“Stay where you are,” House says, holding out a hand and grunting as he drags himself off the couch, grimacing in pain. Wilson, confused yet obedient, stays put, curiously watching House as he makes his way over to Wilson, grabbing his jacket sleeve and tugging. Wilson stumbles a bit away from the door and closer to House.
“Don’t leave,” House says again, looking Wilson dead in the eyes.
“I have— I have things to do,” Wilson murmurs, glancing away.
“No, you have a thing to do, and I think it’s a stupid thing to do, and if I have to lock you in my apartment to keep you from doing it, I will,” House says, his voice firm. Wilson blinks, seemingly at a loss for words.
“What do you think I’m going to do, Greg?” he asks, apprehensive.
“I tried to break into your computer for a prank,” House mutters. “Saw your search history.”
Wilson still seems confused for a moment or two, and then something clicks, and then he looks scared, and confused again, and a little heartbroken, and a whole lot angry. He does that same bitter, brittle, exhausted laugh of his, pinching the bridge of his nose with a grimace of a smile.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath, “Un-be-lievable. I shouldn’t be surprised,” he admits, throwing his hands up in the air, “But my God, Greg, you’re unbelievable. You invaded my privacy--"
“Good thing I did, you’re suicidal!” House shouts. Wilson glares at him.
“You think I’m suicidal,” Wilson says slowly, the word catching on his tongue like it’s the first time he’s heard it out loud. “You think I’m going to--” he continues, pausing to swallow thickly, “You think I’d actually do that? Go through with it?” He watches House expectantly, and then pushes on upon the lack of response. “So instead of talking to me about it like, oh, gee, I don’t know, a normal person, you broke into my computer, looked through my search history, and proceeded to harass me with questions about my dead patients and force me to make you dinner at your apartment.”
“I’ve done worse to save a life,” House dismisses with a wave of his hand.
“This isn’t saving a life--"
“Isn’t it?” House asks, raising his voice again. “You’re being stupid, reckless, and selfish.” And House knows he shouldn’t be saying that, because accusing a psych patient of being any of those things is a recipe for disaster, but since when has House given a shit?
Wilson flinches back, affronted, and tries to tug his jacket sleeve out of House’s grasp. He keeps trying until the sleeve is finally pried free, and he steps closer to the door, opening it cautiously.
“You’re not going anywhere,” House declares, jabbing his pointer finger into Wilson’s chest. Wilson shakes his head.
“Like you could stop me,” Wilson mutters, stepping outside and making a mad dash for his car. House scowls, trailing far behind his friend at a pained snails’ pace, watching helplessly as Wilson gets into the car and slams the door shut, and it almost feels like watching a patient enter a flatline after Cuddy denies a stupidly illegal but completely necessary procedure. The car hums to life quickly, headlights glowing yellow in the night, but it doesn’t drive off into the night. House hobbles over to the passenger door, hooking his fingers into the handle and tugging. Locked.
“I’ll smash in your window!” House shouts, deliberately exaggerating the movements of his mouth just in case Wilson has to lip-read, all while waving his cane threateningly. Wilson glares and gives him the finger. House taps against the window rhythmically for a few moments before raising his cane in a slow and forceful arc, which at last gets Wilson to angrily unlock the door. House throws himself in with a groan, digging the heel of his palm into his leg.
“Get talking,” House grunts, keeping his hand moving over the scar tissue. Wilson exhales slowly, flexing his hands on the steering wheel. The car engine is quiet. Someone shouts a couple blocks down.
“What’s the point?” Wilson sighs, slumping against the seat, head falling against the cushion with a dull thud. “Clearly, you know everything about me. Shouldn’t you know why this is happening and how to fix it?”
There’s silence for a while. They’re both exhausted.
“You really think I’d actually do it?” Wilson asks, his mouth contorting into a sad smile. He glances over at House, who keeps his eyes on the bumper of the car parked in front of them and doesn’t say a word. Wilson lets out a humorless chuckle.
“Of course you do,” he says, his voice calm and steady. His words become measured. “Because the second I stop smiling and carrying your shit, that means I’m clearly a flight risk, right? Means you should call Cuddy, put me in psych hold? I’m sure she’d love to fill out more paperwork for us.”
There’s a beat of silence, but House still doesn’t take the invitation to butt in.
“We’re doctors,” Wilson continues, quiet and subdued. “You and I both know that we’re going to get tired, and burn out. We’re allowed to, it’s expected. I’m allowed to be tired, and to burn out, and to fall apart a little, and to research uncomfortable topics without being ambushed like a-- a-- a fucking flight risk psych patient.”
“You’re allowed to do those things, yes,” House admits, his voice oddly rough and almost out of place in the quiet atmosphere. “You’re not allowed to leave.”
“No, I’m not allowed to leave you,” Wilson clarifies. “Or, more specifically, you won’t allow me to leave you.”
“No, I won’t,” House says firmly, shaking his head. “And if that means I have to shove you in a ward for a couple days, then so be it.”
“And what if it means you have to talk to me?” Wilson asks. “Actually talk to me, person to person. What if keeping me here means you have to have emotionally vulnerable conversations with me?”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?” House responds. Wilson sighs, and House rolls his eyes in an exaggerated manner. Another uncomfortable silence begins to permeate the air, keeping a choking grip around House and Wilson’s necks until House works up the courage to break it.
“How’s your arm healing up?” he asks, glancing over at Wilson, who does a terrible job of hiding the irritated and ashamed look that crosses his face. “From the great kitchen-stabbing incident of 2006?”
“Fine,” Wilson grits out, right hand instinctively hovering over his left forearm where the bandages rest.
“Are you also going to lie when I ask you where the rest of your cuts are?” House asks with an un-cautious tone. Wilson chews on the side of his bottom lip, hesitating before responding.
“There aren’t any more,” he replies in a level, monotone voice, “It was a one-off.”
“So that’s a yes to the lying,” House says, eyeing Wilson, who is refusing to make eye contact. “Cool, that’s one emotionally vulnerable thing we can work on.”
Wilson doesn’t respond, and his grip on his left forearm tightens considerably until one of the stitches pops, making him wince and draw in a sharp breath.
“I think we should head back inside,” House says, reaching over to tug Wilson’s hand away from the, now likely bleeding, forearm. Wilson doesn’t answer, instead choosing to breathe slowly and heavily as House drops his arm and gets out of the car. House walks around the front of the car, keeping his eyes on Wilson the whole time, and then opens the door to Wilson’s side. Wilson looks up at him, his misty eyes throwing House in for a bit of a loop, but the two of them eventually get to the front door, and then into the foyer, and then into the bathroom where Wilson is made to sit on the edge of the bathtub as House pulls out the first aid kit or the second time this week.
“Shirt and pants,” House says, waving his hand in Wilson’s general direction as he grabs the necessary supplies from the first aid kit. At Wilson’s lack of response, House repeats himself: “Shirt and pants, take them off.”
There’s a pause in Wilson’s forcefully steadied breathing before the familiar rustle of cloth reaches House's ears. The pants and collared shirt fall together in a heap on the tiled floor, and then an undershirt joins them. Normally, Wilson might protest this, but as it stands, he’s just looking up at House with exhausted eyes. House’s vision roams over Wilson’s body, taking note of the recent wounds over his stomach and thighs.
“You’re an idiot, you know that?” House mutters, picking up a bottle of saline solution. “A whole damn doctor who doesn’t have the common sense to try to keep the inside of his skin on the inside, where it belongs. Acting like a teen girl who got dumped on prom night.”
He grabs Wilson’s right knee, pushing it to the side to better reveal the cuts that have extended to the inner thigh. They’re the freshest— from today, if he’d have to guess. Without waiting for Wilson’s permission, he irrigates the wounds with a generous amount of saline solution. Wilson’s face contorts the slightest bit, barely enough to hint towards any sort of discomfort. The liquid running down the inside of his thigh and into the bathtub is pinkish at first, but it clears up after a few moments. House tilts the saline solution bottle back up, and it makes a squeaking sound as bubbles clear from the nozzle. He leaves it by the counter, and takes a closer look at the cuts.
“No stitches,” Wilson says, answering the very question House had hardly even thought. House looks up at his friend. His face is pale and sweaty.
“I’m starting to think you want sepsis,” House grumbles. He’s half tempted to leave Wilson alone in the bathroom to tend to himself, but he appears more like a tender, shaking chihuahua than a man right now and tender, shaking chihuahuas aren’t known for their self-care abilities. Neither are depressed men, for that matter.
House uses a sanitary wipe to clean up around the edges of the cuts, and then pats some non-stick gauze pads around the thigh, securing them with medical tape and quickly wrapping them all up with hurt-free wrap. It’s hardly ER-worthy medical care, but it should keep Wilson in one piece for now.
“You know, I always thought that if one of us were to kill himself, it’d be me,” House muses aloud, taking note of Wilson’s face contorting into an exasperated expression. “Overdose would seem like too much of a cliché, so I figured I’d just shoot myself in the head--”
“A-ha!” Wilson exclaims, jabbing a finger into House’s chest. “You do have a gun!”
House stares at him blankly.
“Never said I had a gun,” he clarifies, turning his face back down to his work on wrapping the wounds on Wilson’s abdomen. “I’ve already got a gist of what you were considering from your search history, but what were you planning?”
“Your bedside manner is abysmal,” Wilson groans, “If I were a patient, I’d sue you.”
“Cuddy has a fund for that,” House shrugs, sticking a bit of tape to the end of the wrap. Wilson’s right thigh and abdomen are now thoroughly wrapped up. The cuts on his left thigh are too old to bother with, and his left arm is healing up mostly fine, popped stitches aside. Satisfied, House starts putting things back in their place as Wilson looks on from his spot on the edge of the tub.
“Overdose,” Wilson says, cutting through the methodical rustle of House’s medical-supply-organizing. House looks up briefly, meeting Wilson’s eyes. “I was thinking about a bullet in the head, but it’s… it’s not really fitting.”
“Wanted to poison yourself, see what it was like from the patient’s view?” House murmurs, tucking the first-aid kit behind the mirror cabinet. Wilson grimaces.
“You need neediness,” House starts, staring strangely at the sink, “But that means you see a lot of suffering, and it gets to you.”
The way he started the sentence made it sound like he was going to go off on some sort of tangent, but the air remains still and quiet, making them both all too aware of the slight mugginess in the bathroom resulting from the hot summer night outside.
“How very emotionally insightful of you,” Wilson mutters. “I don’t suppose you’d be up to helping a friend out with said emotional suffering?”
House shrugs, turning to look at Wilson, who is still mostly unclothed, save for his boxers and wound dressings. His hair is disheveled, his clothes are heaped on the floor to gather wrinkles as we speak, and his doleful eyes are as full of sorrow and grief as they’ve ever been, laden with dark circles. He looks like half a trainwreck.
I’m not one for emotional support, but I’d try to help you, is probably what House should say, but what comes out of his mouth is:
“You look like shit.”
Wilson huffs, bemused, letting his head drop a bit to stare down at the tile.
“Such a way with words,” he laughs to himself, quietly.
“So,” House says, somewhat abruptly, sitting down on the edge of the bathtub with Wilson. He rolls his cane back and forth between the palms of his hands. “What are you thinking? Antidepressants? Therapy? Mindful yoga?”
“Only if you’re with me,” Wilson admits quietly.
“You want us both to be on antidepressants?”
“No-- well, actually… wait, no, no, I mean, like… ugh,” Wilson groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I mean, I’m fine with whatever it is you’re going to test out on me, I don’t care, just… I want you with me.”
I’ll be with you every step of the way, is what House might say if he were a well-adjusted normal person who didn’t act like he’d been locked in a closet for eighteen years. What he actually says is:
“I’m not coming with you to the loony bin.”
“Well, you’d at least visit me, right?” Wilson asks, snorting. The corner of House’s lips twitches up the slightest bit.
“I’ll sneak into the cafeteria to steal your psych ward fries,” he says with a shrug.
“Good, good,” Wilson laughs, slumping against House’s side. House should elbow him off, maybe toss him into the tub and turn on the cold water for good measure. Instead, he finds himself leaning against Wilson in return, the two of them holding out in that position for a solid three minutes before House complains that his leg is falling asleep and Wilson helps hoist the man up, the two of them limping in tandem to the living room.
House asks about Wilson’s patients once they’re both on the couch. Wilson talks and talks, late into the night, until the pauses between each sentence stretch out like warm taffy, his talking eventually halting altogether. His head lolls back on the couch at an uncomfortable angle. Whatever. His fault for forgetting a pillow. Operation WTF has been successfully completed, so no more emotional manipulation is required to get Wilson to talk about his stupid emotions.
(Still, House brings one of the nice pillows from his bed to prop up Wilson at his neck) (And if Wilson notices it when he wakes up, he doesn’t say anything about it)