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Summary
“How 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. Your landlord found a correlation between 𝘺𝘰𝘶 and a guy who 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘥 himself.”
House arched a brow. “Thought that was a given. Ohh wait—” He lifted a hand theatrically. “You want me to deny and distract. Fine. House has 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 in common with the alcohol-addicted, nihilistic fisherman who couldn’t follow social codes.”
Wilson’s voice sharpened. “Of course you don’t. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 have people who care about you. 𝘏𝘦 had to have his remains cleaned by the guy who owns his apartment.”
House’s expression flickered, just briefly—something small and unguarded— insecurity, but it was gone before Wilson could comment. “I do?” he said, all sarcasm again. “That’s news.”
“𝘠𝘦𝘴, you do!” Wilson snapped. The words came out louder than he meant. “Am I not 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 standing right in front of you?”
House almost didn't believe it. If it was anyone else, he wouldn't.
But this was Wilson. As easy to read as an open book, and with habits House has carved into his palms. Not that Wilson never lies, everyone lies. But this was Wilson. And the urge to believe whatever lie that came out of his lips was tempting.
it was cancer— Cuddy dies. Wilson has to pick up the peices.