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As Gregory House stepped out from the automatic doors of Princeton-Plainsboro, the cold bit at his nose and eyes. He cursed under his breath, startled by the blast of freezing wind.
He’s sweating inside his heavy layers that just barely protect his skin from the bitter cold, easily in the negatives. His leg stabbed at him as he stood there, drinking in the harsh weather of the night.
9 P.M. It was a particularly hectic day at the hospital— a woman with a severe fever due to an infection in her lungs, nearly poached her damn brain. She screamed when put into the ice bath, and as her sobs echoed through House’s head the unwelcome memories of his childhood flooded back.
𝗗𝗲𝗰𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟮𝟴𝘁𝗵, 𝟭𝟵𝟳𝟮
𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘦-𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘉𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘶𝘯𝘶𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘜𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘧𝘦𝘸 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘴— 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘥, 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥. 𝘐𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘎𝘳𝘦𝘨—
The memory is interrupted, and House realizes he doesn’t remember what he was doing before it happened.
—“𝘎𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘰𝘳𝘺.” 𝘑𝘰𝘩𝘯 𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦.
𝘐𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 13-𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳-𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘎𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥.
𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘱𝘴. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘣 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥, 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦.
𝘏𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘯𝘰𝘪𝘴𝘦. 𝘏𝘦’𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮. 𝘏𝘦’𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵.
𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘩, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘴. 𝘑𝘰𝘩𝘯 𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘤𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘎𝘳𝘦𝘨’𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘴𝘦, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘩. 𝘏𝘦’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 38 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩.
𝘎𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘤𝘳𝘺. 𝘏𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘤𝘳𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰.
“𝘈 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘤𝘳𝘺, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳.”
“𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘦𝘢𝘵.”
“𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩, 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘦𝘢𝘵.”
𝙄𝙘𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙨
𝙇𝙤𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙪𝙩
𝙎𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜
𝘑𝘰𝘩𝘯 𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦— “𝘈 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘵,”— 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘑𝘰𝘩𝘯 𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘮𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴.
House realizes he’s in his car now— still freezing cold, eyes unfocused and staring off into the distance.
He’s starving, in pain, and cold, and he can’t bring himself to just make it home and call that Chinese place. He’s exhausted.
He looks around at the half-empty parking lot, on the verge of either tears or completely dissociating. Actually, it’s both, as is soon proved by the silent sobs that crawl down his face and absorb in the steering wheel.
His brain is just too loud. It replays over and over— every time he slept outside, the ice baths, not eating for days on end because something slipped his mind and he was late. Every lost patient, those few unsolved puzzles, and god, maybe right now, his best friend.
𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘴𝘰𝘯.
He sobs, and he tries to keep it quiet, keep the sound to himself, never let any evidence of his existence stick around, it echoes through his brain and car. He shivers slightly and flips open his phone, dialing Wilson’s phone number, barely hesitating before he presses the ‘call’ button with a shaking hand.
—————————————————————-
Wilson is snapped from a half-asleep state as his phone rings.
[𝘔𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘰 𝘰𝘰𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘯𝘯𝘯~]
Wilson picks up the phone, the song silencing immediately as House’s broken, raw voice breaks through the background noise of a sappy rom-com.
He’s almost unintelligible— the normally well-versed man is barely even speaking English at this point, but his voice is cracking and Wilson can hear something obviously repressed on the other end.
“Listen, House, are you still at the hospital?” He interrupts, his voice stern but draped with worry and concern.
“I-I’m in my car.” House stumbles out, and hangs up the phone knowing Wilson is coming to get him.
—————————————————————-
Wilson nearly breaks the door handle off of House’s car as he throws himself into the passenger seat.
A sharp chill runs up his spine, both from the residual freeze of the night and House’s broken sobs.
“Hey.” Wilson says softly, putting a gentle hand on House’s shoulder.
“Don’t—“ He snaps at Wilson, watching his hand slowly retreat. He breathes out, a shaky, freezing breath.
“I’m not letting you drive right now,” Wilson says. “I’ll get your bag— get in my car.”
House nods, hands covering his face. He’s staring off into the distance, blindly reaching for his cane. The familiar feeling of the rubber grip under his palm is barely grounding.
Wilson opens the passenger door, putting House’s bag on the floor panel.
Wilson starts the car quickly, putting the heat on full-blast. House has that thousand-yard stare plastered across his face, not looking at anything in particular. His legs are pressed together, hands stuck in his lap. Lips pursed, like he’s trying to barely make a sound.
Wilson is quiet. House is quieter. The only sound that the car holds is the 80’s station playing quietly on the radio.
The car ride goes quickly– or maybe it just feels that way to House, considering he’s already shut down, thoughts racing through his head, feeling like he needs to escape–
The rational part of him knows it’s Wilson. He’s not going to hurt him. Wilson wouldn’t hurt him right now. He knows it.
But the rest of him needs to find an exit, an escape, he needs to get out now.
Without thinking, House reaches for the doorhandle to Wilson’s car. He’s almost on autopilot. Wilson looks over, he frowns but the door is locked. He knows it is.
Before House knows it, he’s on Wilson’s couch. Shoes off, cane and bag somewhere– he’s not quite sure. He still just feels out of it, but he knows his fingers and nose hurt slightly, stinging like that nasty December evening.
Wilson looks at House for his silent approval before grabbing his hand.
“You don’t have to say anything, just squeeze once for yes, and two for no. That okay?”
𝘚𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘻𝘦.
Wilson smiles softly.
“Is it the cold?”
𝘚𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘻𝘦– House hesitates before adding another half-squeeze, only gripping two of Wilson’s fingers. He wraps his hand back around slowly.
Wilson nods. “You panicked?”
𝘚𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘻𝘦.
“Are you going to be okay for just a second if I start the kettle?”
...𝘚𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘻𝘦.
Wilson nods, House still avoiding his eyes. He reaches for a blanket under Wilson’s coffee table, the soft fleece rubbing against his palm and fingertips. He strokes the folded blanket with his thumb before he wraps himself, like he’s trying to be small, like he’s trying not to be noticeable.
The smell of hot chocolate fills the room, maybe a hint of cinnamon.
Wilson sits back down, next to House, but he’s not crowding him. He passes the mug over, and as House tries to put it on the table to avoid his shaking hands, he drops it.
Time seems to slow down exponentially as the mug hits the carpeted floor. It doesn’t break. It hardly makes a sound. But the damage is done, because the sweet brown cocoa seeps into the carpet.
It’s not going to damage the carpet, the black hardly stains, so it’s okay in Wilson’s head. House looks horrified, face frozen, like he’s about to break right there. His hands press to his face, crushing his features, dragging what’s left of his nails into his scalp.
“I’m sorry–” His voice breaks before he’s quiet again, staring into the carpet. “I really didn’t mean to–”
“I’m not mad. You’re okay, okay?” Wilson murmurs, his voice low, his hands soft on House’s. “Take a breath.”
The crescent-shaped marks on House’s forehead are only indentations, but they’re pressed in, hard.
House is complacent for a second, trusting in Wilson. He breathes, his eyes still squeezed shut, like if he keeps his eyes closed John House’s face will stay out of his head.
“Are you okay right now?”
𝘚𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘻𝘦
And, reluctantly,
𝘚𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘦𝘻𝘦.
Wilson sighs, like he’s sorry this is even happening to House.
He knows what it’s like. He knows how it feels to freeze like that, how it feels to be locked out of rationality and locked into panic. It’s claustrophobic.
House looks up at Wilson with those eyes, the ones that tell Wilson what House is too proud to say.
“𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦.”
Wilson looks back at House, silent. The quiet radiates between the two and makes room for something different. It’s not pure like the quiet is.
As selfish as it is, Wilson’s wanted this. Wanted to see House vulnerable, wanted to let him be afraid, wanted to hold him like this and feel his rapid breath on his neck.
House digs his nose into the crook of Wilson’s neck and takes a long inhale, like he’s taking in the subtle smell of on his shirt from the detergent he took from his ex-wife. It’s that fancy stuff, from what he can tell. It’s Wilson.
He pulls back. Wilson looks deep into his eyes for a moment before breaking away.
“I need you to talk to me. I’ve never seen you so… scared, before.” Wilson says, his voice remaining low. “What caused it?”
House is quiet.
“It was the ice bath.” He murmurs. Wilson nods.
“Good. That’s all I need for now.”
House is quiet again, his chest rising and falling back to his regular rhythm. He hears Wilson’s heart pound in his chest.
House’s hands wander up, slowly, and he’s clinging to Wilson’s old McGill sweatshirt.
His arms are wrapped around Wilson’s neck now. He slowly pulls, he pulls Wilson’s face close to his. He presses his own forehead to Wilson’s, feeling the heavy breath against his lips and nose. It’s tangible. Real feeling, and it’s grounding. That familiar scent of Wilson’s detergent, of him.
House isn’t pretending. He hasn’t been pretending since Wilson picked him up. He leans in, somehow closer to Wilson’s face, and he tilts his head to avoid crushing Wilson and his nose.
Wilson moves closer too, their lips pressed together now. They’re interlocked, House’s lips on Wilson’s, hands held, intertwined.
Wilson goes in first. He pulls House’s face in, gently, and he kisses him, deep.
Wilson tastes like he knew he would— soft, almost sweet. Wilson.
House tastes like Wilson knew he would. Breath jagged against Wilson’s stubbled top lip, sharp, harsh.
House pulls back first, Wilson’s eyes flutter back slowly into focus.
“Are you okay?”
House nods, looking down.
Wilson pulls him back, close. House clings back on to Wilson’s sweatshirt sleeve. He rests his head on Wilson’s chest, feeling the slow breath of the body under his. He’s safe. He knows it.
Wilson pulls up a blanket from the basket under the nearby end table, wrapping it around him and House. He’s quiet. He’s stopped shaking. He’s calm.
Wilson turns on the flatscreen, flicking through to the nearest nature documentary, one of their mutual calm shows.
Wilson runs his fingers through House’s hair, and feels his breath deepen. And it’s okay.