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Wilson stared up at the ceiling of their shared bedroom. His arms laid at his side, motionless, as his eyes were twitching from being open so long, looking off into the darkness. House was asleep next to him, curled away and snoring softly.
His mind wouldn’t stop racing. Every action from his day was replaying in his mind, every conversation he had, every awkward moment that only he felt was embarrassing but was sure other people noticed. His fears, what he should eat tomorrow, the new episode of General Hospital, what happens after death. It’s so loud and it won’t stop.
The apartment is quiet, only the air conditioner audible and the creaky wheel in Steve McQueen’s cage. The silence is so loud it hurts.
Wilson has never liked the silence. It made him much more aware of every sound, no matter how quiet they were. That’s why the analog clock on their bedroom wall no longer has batteries, the constant tick, tick, tick, nearly drove him crazy, ending with him throwing away the batteries and almost the clock itself.
House was aware of his history with self-harm. Before the pair started dating, he barged into his apartment one night and saw the scars on his thighs when his shorts rode up. Wilson didn’t cut himself often, only when he needed too. Being left alone with just his mind was torture, it was always too loud. Cutting distracted himself, gave him something to focus on, and silenced all his thoughts.
He wasn’t exactly clean, but the cutting did stop a significant amount when he and House started dating nearly a year ago. Only maybe once or twice a month when he was home alone, almost always at night time. During the day it was easy to push those thoughts aside but at night they were active.
Now, here he was, at around two o’ clock in the morning, having been lying down in bed for close to four hours now without a wink of sleep. He was desperate, needed to do something.
Slowly, he sat up and got out of bed, careful not to disturb House as he stepped into a pair of sweatpants, and sneaked to the bedroom door. His hand was slightly shaking with anticipation of knowing what his goal was, but he steadied it by grabbing the brass doorknob and quietly turning it until he could hear the latch release. He opened the door as little as possible as to not let the hallway light wake House, and left the room, matching his previous precision as he closed the door.
The muted sounds of his socked feet kept him company, along with the shuffling noises in Steve’s cage now louder as he entered the living room. He only glanced at the rat—who was peacefully nibbling on plain oats from his food bowl—to make sure he was alright before continuing to the kitchen.
He didn’t bother turning on the overhead light as there was enough light from the hallway, and instead rounded the kitchen island. He opened the drawer to his right where they kept their silverware and other utensils, like the knives. Using his left hand, he searched through the cutlery until finding a knife he deemed reasonably sized. It was nothing obnoxious like a butcher knife but more a paring knife, the blade being about four inches long. The edge wasn’t serrated but was still sharp after being used less than a handful of times.
To test it, he rolled up his right sleeve and took a minute to inspect his arm. It was clean, completely unmarked from any scars as he kept to cutting only on his thighs where it was easier to hide. When he first began he would try on his arms but when it became more of a regular routine he changed places, those cuts having healed since then and weren’t nearly deep enough to leave behind any lasting marks.
He gripped the handle in his left hand and steadily dragged the blade across the top of his arm. As soon as he lifted the metal, blood began beading at the top of the wound. He hadn’t cut down to the fat, barely scratching the surface (literally).
When the blood leaves his cuts, his thoughts leave his mind. All intrusive, panicking, irrational, gone in an instant. But he knew he only had finite time before they started forming again. He was so tired of the thoughts coming back, they were never ending. Always a constant buzzing in his mind that only seemed to get louder. He needed a permanent stop.
Wilson turned over his right arm, wrist facing upwards, fist clenched, and laid it flat on the counter. He took in a deep breath without closing his eyes, moving the knife to point horizontally, the tip of the blade resting at the crook of his elbow.
His hand started shaking. Why was he nervous? He just had to push the blade down and drag it to his wrist, it was simple. It was a solution, and a good one at that considering the thoughts would never come back. Sure, he would die, but it was the only way he could finally be at peace, no longer having—
The overhead light flicked on. Footsteps he hadn’t noticed before stopped somewhere behind him. He didn’t put the knife down, didn’t turn around because he knew who he would see. Instead, he simply sagged his shoulders and turned his head downwards a bit, still keeping an eye on his arm.
“What the hell?” House asked. A few moments ago, he turned over in bed and reached out a hand to try and grab Wilson to pull him close, but was disappointed to feel around and find his side of the mattress empty. He must be in the bathroom, he thought. But, after waiting a very impatient five minutes, he grudgingly got out of bed, cane in hand, and stumbled to the hallway.
Glancing down the hall, he found that the bathroom door was wide open, the light inside was off indicating it was vacant. He frowned, concern creeping in. House’s grasp on the head of his cane tightened as he limped to the living room, doing a quick scan before finding his boyfriend’s silhouette standing in the kitchen.
He was turned away from him, focusing on what, he didn’t know. It was clear he hadn’t heard House approach, so the man stood there for a few seconds as he watched. Wilson was just… staring at the counter. The older man took a step closer and finally saw what he was looking at: a knife. More specifically, a knife Wilson was about to stab through his radial and ulnar arteries.
House spoke up, not gaining a response from the other as he instead just slumped forwards.
“Wilson,” he tried again, his voice becoming clearer as the situation began to wake him up.
“Please, don’t, House,” Wilson pleaded, his voice wobbly. “I’m so close. Just go back to bed.”
House let out a disbelieved scoff. “Yeah, no. I’m not leaving so you can slit your wrists in my—our—kitchen.”
Wilson’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the handle harder before relenting and placing both hands at his side, not letting go of the knife as he turned around.
The couple faced each other, six feet between them. Wilson’s hair was mussed, sticking every which way from the constant turning in bed. Dark bags hung under his eyes from the lack of sleep. Looking down, House saw the top of his arm bleeding, the warm blood slowly trailing down to his wrist.
House was applying more weight onto his cane than usual, leaning farther to his right as his hand on the cane slightly shook. Wether he would admit it or not, Wilson knew his emotional state effected his pain levels. House’s worried eyes were darting up and down the other’s body, noting every detail, every symptom he missed before the two went to bed. Every sign that he should’ve noticed before to try and prevent this.
“Just put down the knife and come back to bed with me.” House tried to coax him off the edge, or away from the knife, but it wasn’t taking. Wilson didn’t respond, nothing more than his index finger twitching against the object.
“You’re bleeding.”
Wilson scoffed. “I didn’t notice.”
“Let me clean it,” House offered as he took a step forward. When he did, Wilson copied the movement and also took a step away from him, keeping the six foot distance between them, only in different positions now.
House took another step closer. Wilson tried to copy but instead his back hit the edge of the countertop. Five feet separating them. Too close. What was House going to do? What would even happen if he put the knife down? This is so embarrassing to be caught at a moment like this. God, he can’t even kill himself correctly. Can’t do anything right.
A third step. Four feet separating them. Much too close now. Wilson needed space. He needed to just get it over with.
As House lifted his left foot to get closer, in one swift movement, Wilson raised his left hand back to the underside of his arm and pressed the point down, immediately feeling the sting as the edge scratched the surface.
“Don’t, House. Please, just… don’t. I’m so tired, all I want is a break.” His voice was cracking by now, all the physical exhaustion leaving his body and being replaced by adrenaline. His mental exhaustion, however, was still at an all-time high.
House’s foot connected with the floor again, but no closer to his partner.
“James. Put the knife d—pull your hand away first, and put the knife down,” he clarified. He hated to see Wilson like this. His best friend, colleague, lover, in such a desperate situation where he feels this is the only way out. He was nice to everyone and anyone, nobody had anything bad to say about him, he didn’t deserve this.
Wilson inhaled a stuttered breath, holding it as he tensed his hand and pressed slightly firmer before—
Crack!
—as House’s cane connected with his ankle. The sudden contact caught him off guard, causing his hands to unclench which made the knife clatter to the ground, a pained hiss left his lips.
House was quick to knock the knife out of Wilson’s reach with the end of his cane before rushing over to his boyfriend.
Both of his hands covered his eyes as Wilson began to cry into them. Harsh sobs left his mouth as he wept louder, turning his head downwards in an attempt to try and hide his face in embarrassment.
House didn’t hesitate before wrapping his arms around his trembling boyfriend. He didn’t immediately reciprocate, instead letting himself be held as he dropped his head onto the older man’s chest and cried into his shirt collar.
“I don’t want to die. I’m just so tired,” he murmured.
“I know. You’re okay now.” House moved his hand up and down Wilson’s back in soothing strokes while murmuring soft reassurances in his ear.
They stood in the kitchen for a long while, prolonging the embrace until House’s leg began to stiffen up from being in the same position for so long. He gave Wilson once last comforting pat before pulling back, placing his hands on the other’s shoulders.
“Alright, I can’t stand here any longer,” he told him while sparing a glance at his arm. It wasn’t bleeding anymore but still needed to be bandaged and cleaned. “Let’s go to the bathroom so I can deal with your arm.”
Wilson dragged his left arm across his eyes, wiping away any remaining tears on his sleeve as he contained himself, inhaling a shaky breath before silently nodding.
He bent down to pick up House’s cane and handed it to him before following him to the bathroom. Neither spoke during the short walk.
When House entered the bathroom, he switched on the overhead light and turned to face Wilson, gesturing for him to sit down on the closed toilet lid. Once seated, Wilson kept his gaze fixed on the carpet. His arms wrapped around his stomach as he didn’t bother to look at House. It didn’t matter that he had seen the whole display in the kitchen, the embarrassment was supposed to die with him. Now that he’d been stopped, the shame, guilt, humiliation was left for him to suffer with.
The older man rifled through his bathroom closet until finding an old grey washcloth, dampening it under the sink’s faucet and wringing out any extra water. Wilson watched his body turn to face him and could feel his eyes on him without looking up.
“You know I’m going to need to actually see your arm, right?”
Still avoiding his gaze, Wilson reluctantly stuck out his arm. House’s hand wrapped around his wrist as he pulled his arm closer.
“The cut isn’t too deep. You barely scratched dermis, thankfully you don’t need stitches,” he narrated, eyes still inspecting the area.
Not deep enough, Wilson thought.
House twisted his hand, flipping Wilson’s arm over, and looked at the underside where he held the point of the knife. “This one is a bit deeper. I’m just going to clean them both with this,” he held up the washcloth, “then wipe them down with antiseptic for good measure.”
He gently dragged the washcloth across the deeper cut on the underside, then carefully over the larger scratch, making sure to wipe away the dried trickle of blood down to his wrist. Once he was finished, House tossed the cloth into the laundry basket and went back out to the hallway, presumably back to the bathroom closet.
Walking back into the room, Wilson looked up to see he had a first aid kit in his hand. After dropping it down onto the edge of the sink and rummaging through, he pulled out an antiseptic wipe. Ripping open the wrapper and tossing it, he grabbed Wilson’s wrist once more and cleaned the areas.
Wilson gritted his teeth at the first stinging touch, but other than that didn’t react. It only took a few seconds before House threw that wipe away as well, turning back to the first aid kit and grabbing two tan bandages. He applied one on the top of his arm and after turning his arm over, put the second one on.
“Do you need me to kiss them too?” House teased as he let go of his arm. He turned away from the younger man and began zipping up the first aid kit and sat it in the cabinet below his sink.
Wilson dragged his hand up and down his forearm before pulling down the sleeve.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled after a moment. House turned back to face Wilson and thought for a second before responding.
“Let’s just go back to bed,” House suggested. Wilson silently obeyed, standing up next to House, who put his hand on the small of his back as a silent reminder he’s there, and the couple walked back to their bedroom.
The bed was still unmade from House’s abrupt leave so he quickly grabbed the bottom corners of their comforter and straightened it out a bit before sliding underneath it, motioning for the younger man to join him. Wilson sat down on his side of the bed, the left side, but didn’t lay down yet. Instead, he stayed sitting upright and stuck his hand under his sweatpants, his fingers trailing over healed scars that stuck out on his thigh.
“Hey,” House said while putting a hand on his shoulder, startling him out of his day dream. “Come here.”
Wilson obliged, laying down on his back and turning to face him. House lifted one of his arms and pulled Wilson to lay against him. He rested his head on the other’s chest as he wrapped his arms around his torso, letting out a content sigh. House placed one arm around his waist and rested his other hand on the back of his head, gently running his fingers through his brunette hair.
“I’m sorry, House,” he apologized again, voice muffled by the fabric of House’s shirt.
“You’re fine, Wilson. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Don’t worry about it now, just go to sleep.”
“Mm… Goodnight, House.”
House pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Goodnight, Wilson.”