Chapter Text
Gregory House wasn’t supposed to be at the bar.
He didn’t like crowds. He didn’t like noise. He didn’t like Billy Joel.
But here he was, second stool from the end, one beer in, pretending he hadn’t been following the guy with the envelope for two days.
He hadn’t meant to.
It started as a curiosity: the clean-cut oncologist type at the convention, younger than most, overdressed, sharp-eyed — but not really seeing anything. House had noticed the envelope right away. Yellow. Legal-sized. Unopened. It had moved with him everywhere: into lectures, onto coffee carts, into corners where he lingered too long and smiled too little.
Most people open bad news right away. Or they throw it out.
This guy — Wilson, according to his badge — carried his around like a relic. Like he needed to feel its weight.
Which was, frankly, more interesting than anything in the immunopathology lecture House had skipped to follow him.
Now Wilson was hunched over the bar, nursing the kind of drink people order when they don’t care what it is, only that it hurts going down.
House watched as the jukebox clicked over and played “Leave a Tender Moment Alone.” Again.
Wilson twitched.
Someone two stools over laughed. House didn’t.
The glass broke a second later — not dropped, thrown. A scatter of cheap whiskey and a thousand shards of reflected regret exploded across the bar mirror.
Wilson didn’t move.
House smiled.
Acute onset, he thought. About damn time.
The cops came fast. Wilson didn’t run.
He stood there, hand bleeding just enough to be symbolic, staring at the fractured reflection like he was waiting for it to put itself back together.
House stayed where he was. He didn’t interfere. That wasn’t the move.
He let them cuff Wilson. Watched the bartender yell. Watched Wilson mutter something half-apologetic and not nearly coherent. Then he paid for his beer, left a twenty on the counter, and slipped out the side door like a man who’d just witnessed an experiment reach its natural conclusion.
The hypothesis: How long can a man delay breaking down before gravity takes over?
Turns out: Forty-eight hours, four skipped meals, and three repeats of Billy Joel.
The Orleans Parish jail was less dramatic than House expected. No handcuffs or screaming. Just concrete, fluorescent lights, and a smell like piss and missed opportunities.
Wilson looked smaller in holding. Still in his blazer. Less blood now, but more regret. He was sitting on the bench with his head back, eyes shut, breathing like someone trying not to pass out.
House knocked on the plexiglass window. Wilson opened one eye.
Then the other.
“No way,” he muttered.
“You’re welcome,” House said.
The paperwork took thirty minutes. House had already called a lawyer — preemptively. He hadn’t known why at the time. Just a feeling.
Wilson didn’t talk until they were out on the sidewalk. He still looked drunk. Not drunk enough to forget this, though.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked.
“Dr. Gregory House,” he said, too brightly. “Infectious diseases. Princeton-Plainsboro. Big fan of self-destruction.”
Wilson squinted. “Have we met?”
“Not formally. I’ve been watching you all weekend.”
A beat.
“I’m… sorry?”
“Don’t be. You’re fascinating.” House tilted his head. “You still haven’t opened that envelope.”
That stopped Wilson cold.
“Are you serious?”
“Serious enough to bail out a stranger and hire a criminal attorney in the middle of the night.”
“That’s—” Wilson started, then stopped. “—insane.”
“Correct.”
They ended up back at the hotel.
House’s room. Bigger than necessary. Wilson’s had been across the street — paid for by the convention. But House had no intention of letting him wander back to whatever poor decision was waiting for him there.
He made them both drinks from the minibar and turned on the TV, but left it muted.
Wilson sat on the edge of the bed like a man waiting for something to collapse.
“I’m not usually like this,” he said, voice dry.
“Sure you are,” House said, handing him the glass. “You’re just not usually watched.”
“You followed me.”
“You let me.”
Wilson didn’t respond. Just drank. Winced. Set the glass down and stared at it like it had betrayed him.
“She didn’t even say anything,” he said eventually. “Just had me served. Like it was a business transaction.”
“Marriage kind of is,” House offered.
“You married?”
“God, no.” A pause. “But I’ve read the research.”
Silence stretched. House didn’t fill it. He never felt the need.
Eventually, Wilson lay back against the headboard. Jacket gone. Shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Tie still hanging loose around his neck like a noose someone forgot to tighten.
“Why did you really bail me out?” he asked. Not accusatory. Just… tired.
House didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he turned off the TV, stood, and crossed to the window.
“Because you looked like someone I didn’t want to stop watching.”
Another silence.
Then Wilson said, almost gently:
“That’s not a healthy reason.”
“Good,” House said. “Healthy people are boring.”
House tossed Wilson another beer without asking.
It made a satisfying thunk against the cheap hotel comforter. Wilson caught it on instinct and looked at it like it had insulted him.
“I should say no,” he muttered.
“You should do a lot of things,” House replied, popping the cap off his own. “You should’ve opened the envelope, you should’ve skipped the bar, you should’ve punched that guy in the face instead of the mirror.”
“Wow,” Wilson said, raising his bottle. “To wise counsel.”
They clinked. Drank. Let the silence come back, but this time it was easier. Not empty.
House sprawled sideways across the armchair like he’d been poured into it. Wilson was half-sprawled on the bed now, leaning back on one elbow, still dressed like he was waiting to give a lecture.
“Why oncology?” House asked suddenly. “Of all the sadistic specialties.”
“Because I hate myself,” Wilson replied instantly. Then: “No. Because I hate being useless. Cancer’s slow. You get time.”
“You mean you get time to fail slowly.”
“Exactly.”
House smirked.
“You’re an optimist and a masochist,” he said. “That’s rare.”
“Says the guy who stalked me all weekend like some morally ambiguous cryptid.”
“I prefer ‘enigmatic.’”
Wilson laughed. Drank. The beer was going down easier now, like a friend he hadn’t seen since undergrad.
“If I were intelligent,” Wilson said, gesturing with the bottle, “I’d think you were trying to get in my pants.”
House raised an eyebrow.
“You’re not intelligent?”
“I am — that’s the problem. Because you’re too smug to flirt and I’m too Jewish to be subtle.”
“Wow,” House said. “So many stereotypes in one sentence. Impressive.”
“Also, neither of us dresses flamboyantly enough for seduction.”
“Speak for yourself,” House said, stretching. “This shirt was fifty bucks and unironed on purpose.”
“Tragic,” Wilson replied. “I should’ve known you were the type who weaponizes linen.”
“And sarcasm.”
“Oh, clearly.”
They both grinned. Then they both drank again. Another round. The bottles were piling up on the nightstand like poor decisions in recyclable form.
“She didn’t even talk to me,” Wilson said, after a while. “No fight. No ultimatum. Just… papers.”
House didn’t say anything.
“We weren’t even bad,” Wilson went on. “It was just—there. Dying. And she didn’t tell me.”
“Because she’s a coward?”
“Because I’m not enough.”
House tilted his head.
“You think that’s how divorce works? Like a grading system?”
“I think it’s how marriage works.”
House leaned back and let the ceiling blur a little. The room felt warm now. Stupidly warm. Like the kind of night you don’t remember until years later when a song comes on and makes you want to break something again.
“You want my diagnosis?” he asked.
“Not really.”
“Too bad. You’re suffering from acute emotional tunnel vision, complicated by chronic romantic idealism.”
“Wow,” Wilson muttered. “Impressive.”
“Untreatable.”
“That’s fine. I’m not planning on living long anyway.”
That got a genuine laugh from House — short, sharp, surprised.
“You’re way too dramatic to die early,” he said.
“Says the man who bailed a stranger out of jail and bought him beer.”
“I never claimed to be healthy.”
They drank again.
Then, quietly, Wilson said:
“I don’t think she ever really loved me. I think she loved who I was trying to be.”
A beat.
House looked over.
“And who’s that?”
“Someone stable.”
House tilted his bottle up to finish it, throat working. Then he tossed it toward the trash can, missed by a foot, and said:
“Sucks to be her, then.”
Wilson looked at him for a long time. No grin now. No sarcasm.
Then he said, quieter:
“You’re kind of an asshole.”
“Yeah,” House said. “But I’m not lying to you.”
Wilson didn’t answer. Just leaned back again, eyes on the ceiling, like maybe if he stared hard enough it would tell him something worth knowing.
Outside, a siren wailed and faded. The AC clicked on with a tired sigh.
In the stillness that followed, House reached for another beer. Found the minibar empty. He chuckled under his breath.
“Guess we’re out,” he said.
Wilson didn’t move. “Of beer?”
“Of pretending.”
A beat.
Then Wilson said, almost to himself:
“God help me, I think I needed this.”
House didn’t reply. He just sat there, watching the man beside him crack slowly, beautifully open.
And for the first time all weekend, he didn’t feel like he was wasting his time.