Chapter Text
“You idiot," Wilson said, voice steeped in exasperation.
House flicked his eyes up to the younger man, gaze only settling on him for a moment over the rim of his reading glasses before refocusing on the Rubik's Cube he was spinning in his hands. The cube was a gift that Chase had purchased for Mara's sixth birthday, apparently assuming that six-year-olds have the IQ to solve something requiring specific algorithms and strong logic. While Mara was being raised by one of the brightest doctors in the country, she wasn't quite at that level yet.
But instead of leaving the toy to lie in wait for Mara to grow older, House had taken over her gift and had been obsessed with it for the past month or so. He had tried to teach Wilson the Layer-by-Layer Beginner's Algorithm a few nights ago with no luck. When House poked him in the side and started explaining, Wilson had simply fixed him with a doubtful look and immediately gone back to reading his secondhand copy of King Lear. Conceding for once, House had rolled his eyes and gone back to flicking the squares around: red, yellow, and blue blurring together with the speed of his fingers.
"What exactly was your goal in hiding my paperwork? To get me to leave earlier? To get me to leave later?" Wilson asked, one hand open in front of him.
House didn't seem motivated to answer in the slightest, staying fixed in his position on the couch. The Rubik's Cube clicked faintly in an off-tempo rhythm as House studiously worked to align the red squares.
"Alright, put that thing down," Wilson said.
House surprisingly listened, placing it on the coffee table, and let his head fall back into the couch, face bored. While he'd prefer not to have this conversation, he did hide Wilson's paperwork to provoke a reaction, so the sooner he let the lecture come, the easier his night would go. Wilson sipped a breath in through his mouth, pushing his lips together, and crinkling his brow. They stared at each other in silence, House grimacing more with each passing second until it seemed to become too much, and he broke, reaching again for the cube.
"No," Wilson said, stopping him, extending his pointer finger in one of his trademark drama teacher-esque motions.
"I was supposed to have forty-five minutes to do paperwork before I clocked out. Instead, I spent thirty minutes searching, figuring out where you scattered it all, and then an hour actually filling it out, looking up which papers went with which person's file, because they were no longer grouped by patient and date."
"Sounds like you need a personal assistant," House drawled.
Wilson tilted his head, "Is that what this is about? That Cuddy said she'd give me an assistant?"
"You don't need an assistant, you're the head of oncology for a reason. Do your job."
"Oh-ho!" Wilson crowed. His mouth ticked up in what could be loosely called a smile, from how floored he was that House thought he had room to speak about work ethic. "You're one to talk. I can't remember the last time you did any sort of paperwork without first trying to pass it off onto your fellows. You don't want to argue who does their job between the two of us."
"I'm too focused on saving people's lives to be bothered with paperwork."
"You're too focused on The Real Housewives of Atlanta to be bothered with paperwork."
"I only started watching that because you did."
"Lie!" Wilson called, probably too loudly. He winced and looked down the hall toward Mara's bedroom, where their daughter lay, hopefully still asleep. House had put her to bed just over twenty minutes ago, and, like most children were able to do, she had fallen right asleep. How House wished his nighttime routine were that of his youth.
"Not a lie."
"Why are we even talking about this? We're supposed to be arguing about you hiding my paperwork... which you will not do again. It didn't affect me in any way other than pissing me off. You can't stop me from getting a personal assistant, if I so choose," Wilson said, acting righteously indignant. House reached forward and grasped the back of Wilson's knee, pulling him toward the couch, and Wilson let himself be drug, plopping down next to the older man with a huff.
"You're just being lazy if you take Cuddy up on her offer," House said.
"Oh my God," said Wilson, eyes shining from the soft lamplight glow, "Are you even hearing yourself? You lost your right to call people lazy the day that you convinced your fellows to go grocery shopping for you."
"It was a bad pain day," House pouted, eyes flitting over his lover's face. When he was losing an argument, a regularly foolproof plan was to pull out the infarction card.
"Every day is a bad pain day," Wilson scoffed.
So much for foolproof.
"Wow. Someone doesn't understand my spoons," House said.
"Okay," Wilson said, branching off House's throwaway comment, "I actually don't." The younger man crossed his arms. "You referenced this like a week ago. What is the spoon thing?"
"It's from an essay by Christine Miserandino. The Spoon Theory is supposed to be an easy way to measure day-to-day chronic pain. Spoons are a metaphor for how much energy is available to a person with chronic pain at a specific given time. It's supposed to be an easy way to explain good days and bad days, and a simple indicator for the able-bodied to understand that a cripple's energy is finite," House said.
"And you expect me to believe that you read an essay about chronic pain," he said flatly.
"I read medical studies. I'm a doctor."
"Allow me to rephrase that. You expect me to believe that you read something that could benefit you and help you manage your pain?"
"Contrary to popular belief, I don't actually want my leg to hurt."
"I know you don't," Wilson's voice softened, "But I also know you don't like to be seen trying to-to make it hurt less, for lack of a better term."
"Yeah. Well, that's why I'm not telling Chase about my midnight reading, I'm telling you," House said, prickling.
Wilson grinned slightly, the very corner of his mouth ticking up.
Of course he grinned. He always got stupidly gushy when House showed that he valued his relationship with the other man. You would think raising a daughter together would be big enough and bold enough proof, but no, the idiot melted over mundane expressions of 'I chose you as my life partner'.
"Ugh, this is why we can't have nice moments," House groaned, grabbing his (Mara's?) Rubik's Cube off the table.
"What- because I smiled? Because, God forbid, I appreciated you sharing something with me for once?" Wilson sputtered, leaning forward to untie his shoes: a task he had deigned unimportant when he first arrived home.
"Are you still mad about the paperwork thing?" House asked, playing coy. He would rather Wilson's focus be on his irritation towards House instead of on his split second of vulnerability.
"Stop. I know what you're trying to do. And yes, I'm still mad about the paperwork thing. You haven't even apologized," Wilson said.
House just stared at him, blankly. He looked slightly bemused at the prospect of an apology.
"Well, an apology would be nice. A guy can dream," Wilson huffed under his breath.
"Oh, we all know you dream," House said, and Wilson shot him a confused glance.
"Your snoring last night was diabolical."
"Snoring and dreaming aren't correlated," Wilson said, irritated, "Sometimes your insults don't make any sense."
"You wound me."
"I don't think-" Wilson started, but stopped when his phone began ringing. Retrieving it from the pocket of his slacks, Wilson flipped it open and peered at the display screen before answering. Not a saved number, House noticed. Before the white text glowing on the screen had disappeared and changed to the 'active call' screen, House spotted the beginning numbers: 609. So, it must be a local caller.
"Hello," said Wilson lightly.
"Hello, this is Patricia Wade from Princeton Medical Center. Is this James Wilson?" asked the tinny voice on the other end of the line. It was a woman's voice; she sounded professional, if not slightly bored. House could hear her well if he sat perfectly still, craned his neck toward Wilson, and didn't breathe audibly.
"Yes," Wilson said.
"Are you related to a..." the sound of shuffling papers rustled in the background, "Daniel Calum Wilson?" the lady asked. Immediately after hearing his name, like a puppet yanked upward, Wilson's posture straightened, back muscles tensed. Gone was his relaxed, at-home persona; the professional 'Dr. Wilson' had taken his place. House looked over at his partner; his face was drawn up, ill-looking, and the ever-present gleam was gone from his eyes.
"Yes. My brother."
"I am calling to let you know that Daniel is here at Princeton Medical Center," she told him.
Wilson's breathing seemed to cut off, like he had hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of him.
"Is he alive?" Wilson asked quietly.
"Yes, yes, he's alive," the woman assured Wilson.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"He is experiencing seizure clusters, and our doctors are not yet sure what is causing the episodes."
"Oh my God," Wilson said lowly.
"But rest assured, Mr. Wilson, we are doing everything we can to get him stable," she said. Wilson's hand was shaking when he lifted it to wipe his brow. His tongue moved inside his mouth, throat bobbing, looking like he couldn't find the words to speak. The line crackled, the distant sounds from the woman's end of the line not loud enough to pass through to Wilson's, only loud enough to create static.
"Are you there?"
Wilson seemed to find himself and pulled the phone closer to his mouth.
"Yes, sorry. I'm just- God. You should be aware... that he has schizophrenia. I'm not sure you'll be able to find a file on him to tell you that. And, as far as I know, he isn't currently on medication."
"Oh! Is he- is he often in the hospital?"
"No," Wilson said tersely. "I just said I don't think you'll be able to access a file for him. What makes you think that?"
"I didn't mean to anger you, Mr. Wilson. I apologize."
"Doctor."
"I'm sorry?"
"Doctor Wilson. And I'd like him transferred to Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital as soon as he can be, preferably tonight. You should have the necessary equipment to make his transfer safe," Wilson said.
"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Patricia said, and House heard the faint click of a mouse.
"I understand, but I would like Daniel transferred as soon as possible," Wilson said, tone deceptively even. Patricia Wade probably thought he was relatively calm, but House could see he was anything but; he looked moments away from imploding.
"If I need to come in and sign off on it, I can do so right now," he told her.
"...Alright. I will see what I can do. Don't get your hopes up, though, James. Princeton-Plainsboro has to accept the arrangement," the woman said.
"I understand," Wilson said again, broken record, unable to do anything except repeat, "but I would like to see him transferred as soon as possible."
"I will make the call now, and if Princeton-Plainsboro agrees, I'll give you a call back so you can come down and sign for it."
"Thank you," Wilson said, the final word almost a rush of air as the line went dead and he looked over to House with desperation.
House wasn't sure what to do. He had never been good at this kind of thing. Wilson's brother was- what, mysteriously ill? Ill in a way connected to his schizophrenia? Deathly ill?
The only way he knew how to help the sick was to figure out what was wrong with them, and while he would obviously be taking over the case, that wasn't enough. What Wilson needed now was someone to comfort him, to convince him everything would be okay. But he had never been good at giving comforting lies. Why tell someone everything will be fine when you don't know that? In his mind, placating lies did nothing. If the person you're talking to has common sense, they won't be comforted by a 'it's going to be okay,' because you don't have any factual evidence. Why someone would find simply speaking something into existence comforting, he would never know.
It was easier for him to comfort Mara. She was a child. Sometimes she was satisfied just by a familiar presence or the feeling of being in House's lap. Her tribulations included scraped knees, broken toys, and mean kids at school.
Adult problems looked a bit different.
But he couldn't do nothing.
"C'mere," he said softly, softer than most would believe he was capable of speaking, unless they had seen him comforting Mara.
"We need to go. We need to go to Princeton Medical Center," Wilson said, moving to stand. House shook his head.
"Not now. If he gets transferred tonight, we'll go to PPTH as soon as he gets there. But you won't be of any help if you go see Danny at PMC. That receptionist will just tell you to piss off."
"House. We're going. I need to see him. I need to be there for him," Wilson said.
"Jimmy, look at me. It won't make things easier. The moment he gets to Princeton-Plainsboro, we'll be there. But until then, we won't be of any help. We'll just be getting in the way. You're not a better brother if you sit in their waiting room and cry than if you sit on our couch and cry," House told him. Wilson looked upward, trying to keep the tears welling in his eyes from falling.
"You're the worst, House."
"Yeah, I know. But that doesn't mean I'm wrong."
"I don't care if I get in the way. I don't even care if he's conscious, I need to be there," Wilson said.
"So then you need to be there for yourself? If he's not conscious he won't even know the difference."
"Don't make it sound like I'm being selfish," Wilson said, voice quivering.
"You're not being selfish. But you do care more about seeing him, to ease your own guilt, than you care about comforting him."
"How can you even say that?"
"It's easy to see. You haven't seen him in years, and haven't talked to him in longer. You stopped trying to. But now, he's sick. Now, you feel bad."
"I don't know why I thought you would be helpful. It's insane to me that I have to wonder if my partner is going to put me down or not when I show a single moment of sensitivity. You don't care what you say, as long as you're right. I don't need this right now. I don't need this power trip that you-" Wilson cut himself off with a gasp of realization, "You bastard," he spat, eyebrows furrowed. "You're trying to make me think I'm being selfish, so I won't go. You know I hate putting myself before anyone else so you-you purposely... you tried to manipulate me."
"I didn't try. I did manipulate you. Just didn't quite get away with it," House said.
"I can't believe you," he said, angry.
House didn't feel guilty. There wasn't much that caused him guilt. He felt guilty when he purposely hurt Wilson, sure. But he didn't feel bad when he hurt Wilson trying to help him. Call his logic twisted (he was sure it was), but it was the way his mind worked. If his intentions were positive, he didn't believe in the need for repentance in any circumstance.
"You shouldn't be surprised by my Machiavellian approach," House said. Wilson threw a hand up, his fingers cutting the light from the lamp that had been shining onto his face.
"And yet, somehow, I still am."
What Wilson didn't know, and House only knew subconsciously, was that manipulation hadn't been his only intention. He was also trying to distract Wilson from worrying about his brother. If the younger man was angry with House, he would be too caught up in arguing, and for a moment, he wouldn't be thinking about Danny's oxygen levels, or what was causing the seizures, or any of the million questions running through his head. He would just be angry. And House could deal with angry, if it meant Wilson could deal.
"Come here, you idiot," House said, with a little more force and condescension than he said it with the first time.
Wilson looked at him, those same glassy eyes filled with worry, before shuffling forward on the couch to slump into the arms House had held open. His Dr. Wilson persona wilted, melting not into relaxation, but into the jittery, concerned part of himself that led him to sit by dying patients' bedsides for hours at a time, willing to do anything to bring someone peace. House could feel his partner's quick breathing where it puffed out against the bottom of his neck.
"He can't die, House. He can't," Wilson said into House's skin. House lifted a hand and placed it at the nape of the younger man's neck, stroking over the hair at the base of his skull.
"Not- not when I finally found out he's actually alive. I mean, how many years did I spend searching for him everywhere, knowing, in the back of my mind, he was probably gone for good? But then, when I found out he was alive, and we were getting Mara, I didn't think I had to be afraid anymore. He'd made it so long, I knew he could survive. Or- I thought I knew he could," Wilson picked up his head just enough to make eye contact. "I can't lose him. I thought that knowing he was out there somewhere was good enough, but it isn't. I should've looked for him when we took Mara in. I can't lose him now. I regret so much. Not when, God, when Mara hasn't even met him yet."
"He's seizing, Wilson. Don't jump straight from seizures to death," House told him, aware that he himself had leaped to that conclusion. But that had been stupid of him, he could see that now. If he was going to be of any real help, he would need to keep his head and not jump to worst-case scenarios because it was Wilson's brother.
"Should I call Cuddy and tell her to tell the transfer center to accept Danny? So they don't, for some reason, turn him down?" House asked Wilson, who had curled back into his neck. Wilson didn't speak, but House could feel the nod of his head. He could also feel the fluttering of his thick lashes and a few hot, escaped tears running down his collarbone, but he assumed Wilson would prefer he didn't address that.
House patted his pocket, hoping his phone was in his jeans, but no dice. He groaned internally.
"Not sure where my phone is. Can I use yours?" he asked. There was no vocal response, but Wilson cleared his throat and adjusted the way he was lying against his lover to allow him free use of both his arms. Reaching around the lump pinning him to the couch, he grabbed Wilson's phone from the couch cushion where Wilson had let it fall from his grasp. Gripping the cold metal, the diagnostician pulled up Cuddy's contact and hit call.
She picked up on the first ring.
"Hello, James," she answered lightly. House could hear some sort of muffled, simmering sound in the background; maybe she was cooking dinner, or maybe something was playing softly on a TV.
"Hey, Cuddy," House said tensely.
A groan echoed through the line.
"Don't call me from Wilson's phone because that leads me to believe I'm going to get asked something that isn't stupid. I don't care about whatever you have to say to me. I am off work, House. I will see you tomorrow," she told him.
"It's about Wilson, so maybe give me a minute to speak before you hang up," House couldn't help but snipe. House could feel Wilson rumble something into his skin. He didn't think it was a real word, probably just a placating sound meant to tell him to settle down.
-
Fifteen minutes, one sympathetic gasp from Cuddy, two examples of House's protective nature over Wilson, and only one threat later, Cuddy was hanging up, promising to call the transfer center as soon as she ended their call.
Wilson let out a long breath of air from where his face was still pressed against House, and the older man could feel his lover's body relax minutely. His hand had wandered to House's leg during the call, and he had been tracing up and down the faded denim. At first, House had batted his hand away, but he eventually gave in and let Wilson repeat and repeat the soothing motion, trancelike, similar to a fish's steady swim back and forth inside its fixed tank.
"This is gay," House said, looking down at Wilson's soft curls. His hair was slightly longer than he usually let it get before cutting it (something about rearing a child changes your priorities), allowing it to gently curl at the ends. It kept him looking youthful, even with the sporadic grays across his scalp and concentrated at his temples.
"What? Me stroking your leg?"
"Well, you stroking my anything would be gay," retorted House.
Wilson did not respond. House assumed he was not very amused. They were silent for a moment, during which the oncologist pushed himself up and wiped a hand over the hollow of House's throat to clear away the few tears that had collected there. He put his back against the couch, still rather close to House.
"You were right," Wilson said.
"I know," a pause, "About what?"
"If I cared about my brother as much as I claim to, I never would've given up looking for him."
House made a low sound. Wilson looked around the living room inside of the home they had built together, a wave of sadness hitting him for his brother: not for the seizures wracking his body, but for the fact that he didn't have what Wilson took so for granted, a home.
"Why would I give up? He mattered, he matters, so much to me. But all of a sudden, I just moved on. I don't move on," Wilson said, voice tight with anger toward himself. His eyes were wide and glassy from the last couple of tears that were doing that annoying thing where they won't come out unless you press your eyes very tightly together.
"We got Mara; you knew he was alive, and you had his kin."
"That's not enough," he said.
"It was then. We don't regret things when we're happy, because we don't need to. We only need a decision to blame when something goes wrong," House said, staring into his eyes. Wilson nodded, pressing his lips together tightly, the usually plush pink now a bloodless white.
The phone rang out beside Wilson's thigh, breaking the silent tension of the living room. He wordlessly handed the phone over to House, who answered it, and leaned in closer to Wilson, almost cheek to cheek, to ensure that both would be able to hear the woman on the other end.
"Hello, Cuddy."
"Hi, House. I just got off the phone with the transfer center, and Daniel should be getting moved to Princeton Plainsboro tonight. Wilson doesn't even need to go down to PMC and sign for it. I hadn't gotten to pull my Dean of Medicine rank in a while, it was nice," she said, then refocused, her voice going back to business cadence. "They estimated he'd be moved sometime around 10:30, but you know how these things work, it could be tomorrow morning. But- before you say anything, it won't be our people's fault if he doesn't get transferred tonight. I was very stern with them on how important it was that we are timely. If there's a delay, it will either be because of Daniel's health or because of PMC," she told House. Wilson nodded next to him, the edge of his hair brushing over House's ear, and House let out an internal sigh of relief.
"Thanks, Cuddy," House said into the phone.
"Of course, anything for James. Tell him that if there's anything Danny needs, come right to me," Cuddy said, obviously unaware that Wilson was a part of this call too.
"Thank you, Lisa," Wilson said softly, speaking up. He made eye contact with House, almost daring him to say anything to the effect of "If you could talk to her, why couldn't you answer the call?" House did not say anything of the sort.
"Oh- James! Anyway, yes, let me know if your brother needs anything. We're going to figure out what's wrong with him. House is a great doctor, and we also have great people at this hospital who aren't House. I read the lackluster file PMC pulled on him; it looks like they threw it together in about five minutes. There's so many gaps in info, it's practically useless. No wonder they were struggling to get him stable. Now that we have you, we'll be able to get a good history and figure out the problem," she told them, voice muddled through the phone line, yet comforting.
"Thank you so much, really. We'll be there by 10:30. In hopes that he actually will be there then," Wilson said.
"You can thank me once Daniel's better. For now, just focus on your brother. See you soon. And House--I did you the favor of paging your team for you, I'm assuming you'll need them," she told him, hanging up.
Wilson turned to House, nodding shallowly like he wasn't sure what to do with his body now that there was nothing asked of him but to wait.
House had never met Danny. Until now, he didn't assume he ever would. He had seen a few photos of Danny from when he and Wilson were children, and the younger brother looked very similar to James. The most stark difference was how scrawny he was.
Wilson kept one framed photo on the shelf in the living room of the two of them, and in it, Danny looked twig-thin: unhealthily small compared to the full, healthy-childlike figure of his brother. It had been taken on the first day of Rosh Hashanah when James was... maybe thirteen and Danny was eight, Wilson had told House one day. You could tell it was a celebration, though Danny clearly hadn't eaten much of the feast laid out. The two brothers were posed behind a table filled with sautéed dates, roast chicken, apple challah, and the traditional apples and honey. Danny was standing behind the table while Wilson sat, looking up at him. Both were smiling, near laughter, and if you looked closely, you could see one of Danny's fingers resting on Wilson's shoulder. Apparently, his hands had been covered in honey, and he had spent the whole evening trying to poke Wilson without the rest of the family noticing. Wilson had been laughing when he told House that story, taken back to the time the photo had been captured. A time when Danny was home, and happy.
Sometimes, when Wilson missed his brother (or missed the boy he used to be), he would go to the shelf and look at that picture, remembering the Rosh Hashanahs, and the Thanksgivings, and the Hannukkahs of their youth. He hadn't looked at that photo in a while.
Wilson found his eyes wandering to the shelf. From his position on the couch, he could just make out the shape of them in the photo, their actual expressions being much too blurry for his middle-aged eyes.
"You know what I've always wondered?" House asked, but did not continue, his eye catching the figure that was approaching down the hallway.
"Phone?" a small, sleep-laden voice asked. Mara stepped out from the shadows of the hallway, the gentle light of the living room highlighting her crazy bed-head. How her hair already looked like some woodland creature had burrowed in it when she had only been in bed for under an hour, House wasn't sure. She lifted a little fist to rub tiredly at her eyes, seemingly confused to find herself in the living room, as if her waking feet had subconsciously carried her to her dads.
"Yeah, we were on the phone. Sorry we woke you, honey," Wilson said, beckoning her into his arms. "Let's get you back to bed, yeah?"
Mara tilted her head, taking in her dad's face, the barely glistening tear tracks down his face drawing her surprisingly attentive eye.
"You are sad?" she asked on a yawn, still not entirely awake, eyes drooping adorably. Wilson grasped her forearms, his large surgeon's hands dwarfing her wrists.
"Oh, it's nothing to worry about. I'm okay," he said, brushing the lingering wetness off with the back of one of his hands. House watched him, brows cinched tight.
"You are not okay?" she asked, still slightly confused.
"I'm alright."
"Did a baby die?" she asked him. For some reason, she was currently fixated on wthere either of her dads had patients who were babies. Wilson never did, and House hadn't since this became her latest obsession, but still she asked.
"No, nobody died. Just--nobody died. Thank you for asking, though, honey," Wilson's face went slack, as if coming to a conclusion he wasn't expecting to, and spoke again, "I'm going to tuck you back in, then I'll go to bed. I won't wake you up again tonight," he told her, smiling softly, and brushed back a strand of her hair that was sticking straight up.
"Don't lie to her," House spoke up from his spot on the couch. Wilson looked to him with a swallow.
"What?" he asked, face tight. His eyes were hard, telling House to stop talking.
"You're not going to bed. We're going to the hospital soon, and you just told her that you won't wake her up again. I'm not sure what your plan is, but we sure aren't going to leave her here by herself," House said, tone hard.
"I'm not lying--just, let me put Mara to bed and we'll talk," Wilson said, standing and beginning to herd Mara back toward her room.
"Talk about what?"
"Give me a minute, House," Wilson said, voice measured.
"I'm not going to give you a minute. Don't put her back to bed if we're just going to bring her to the hospital," he spat. "I mean, are we bringing her there? I was assuming you wanted her to see him. Though maybe you don't care anymore, because your priorities seem to have suddenly shifted since you stood up."
"House."
"What?"
"I'm-not-going-to-Princeton-Plainsboro," he said in a rush. "I'm putting Mara back to bed, and then I'm going to go to sleep. You can go into the hospital and start with your team. I just... need to..." Wilson trailed off, shaking his head absently.
House scoffed, gesturing to the couch.
"What the hell are you talking about? Five seconds ago, you were crying because you didn't think you were showing enough love to your brother. Now, suddenly, you don't care about seeing him?" House said.
"Your brother?" Mara asked, confused, from her position beside Wilson. Her head was cocked, large brown eyes staring up at them. She was dressed in a pair of cupcake pajamas that Wilson had started playing 'eat the cupcakes' with, and had since become her favorite pair. It was a silly game he made up where he tickled her and pretended to bite, in an effort to 'get' the cupcakes that were printed on the soft cotton.
House was rather sure the pajamas hadn't been washed during the last week, of which she had worn them every night. The joys of parenthood.
"That's not what I said. What I did say is that I don't want to talk about this right now," Wilson huffed. He settled a hand on his hip, the other hand gesticulating out in front of him.
"So, you're not coming in, but you still expect me to stay up all night with my team working to figure out what's going on with Danny? While you, what? Get a nice night of sleep? That seems like the right choice," House bit out, slowly standing from the couch.
"Oh-ho, that's rich coming from you. You stay at the hospital all night practically once a week, but now that it's him, it's a burden for you. Like you care about anything but the case," Wilson said loudly, voice nearing a yell, but not quite, always conscientious of the neighbors. Mara sniffled from her place between the two men, beginning to cry softly.
She had never been a loud crier, always nearly inaudible, since the day they got her. When she had been just a baby sleeping in her crib, Wilson never even woke up to her cries. House was a restless sleeper (thanks to his leg and overall disposition) and would hear her quiet whimpers, poking Wilson until the younger man was awake enough to crawl out of their bed, glaring at House and yawning.
"If I only cared about the case, I wouldn't be here right now. I would already be at PPTH, starting the differential. Instead, I'm here, wasting my time arguing with you."
"Glad to hear I'm a waste of your time."
"Of course, that's what you got out of that," House said, the eye roll audible in his voice. House felt a tug on the pant leg of his jeans and looked down to see Mara, tears lightly gleaming on her round cheeks, attempting to pull him towards Wilson.
"Kiss," she pleaded them both, voice soft and tear-filled. She looked to Wilson, realizing she couldn't brute force House toward the other man, and tried to will him closer with her eyes.
She hated when they fought (really fought, she could tell the difference between an actual argument and the back-and-forth the two men had going on at all times), so they tried to never argue in front of her. However, life was life, and it's not like they could plan their fights.
Though, House had suggested it once. It was one evening, probably many years ago now, when Wilson had told him, "I'm too tired to fight," so he asked Wilson if he was predominantly free on Thursday nights. That way they could just fight every Thursday; it was predictable, and they could get it out of the way. Wilson hadn't found it funny, unsure whether or not House was joking. Wilson still wasn't quite sure if that had been a serious ask, but maybe he should've taken it.
"This is why I said I didn't want to talk about this right now," Wilson hissed at House.
"Oh, this is why. Not because your rationale flew out the window? Maybe I should ask you again if you've ever thought about cheating on me. You seem to be in a mood of changing your mind," House snapped.
"Oh my God," Wilson said loudly. "Aren't you so glad I gave you the 'cheater' card that you can always keep in your back pocket? How would you win an argument without it? You know, I'm honestly not surprised you're making things worse. You escalate everything," Wilson said, House starting his rebuttal as Wilson was speaking. Wilson was wiping a hand down the back of his hair; the same hand that had been wildly pointing in front of him a moment earlier.
"I haven't brought up your infidelity streak in years, but, you know what? Fine," he paused just long enough to breathe, "I'm going. I'll do what I can for Danny. If you need to call someone to keep the bed warm while I'm working, don't let me stop you," he said, voice dripping with condescension.
Wilson shook his head, angry. His jaw was clenched, surely biting his tongue.
Both men looked down, taking in Mara, whose lower lip was fixed in a pout and twitching with restrained sadness.
"Kiss," she said, softer this time. Her grip on House's jeans was less firm and more like she was using it to tether herself to the older man. If it weren't for the tension filling the room to the brim, it would have been cute; the idea that she thought a kiss would rectify the situation.
House bent down and pressed a feather-light kiss to the top of her head, bracing a hand on his leg to be able to quickly lean forward. Mara wordlessly shook her head no and pointed weakly to Wilson.
"No, Mara," he said lowly, straightening up again. Mara tugged on House's jeans again, and both men eyed each other tensely. Wilson's eyes shuttered, and he stepped forward, his shoulders a tight line as he grabbed Mara's hand that was not full of denim, pulling her lightly in his direction.
"C'mon, honey," Wilson said softly. House worked his jaw, piercing blue eyes boring into Wilson's.
"Goodnight, Mara," he said, stepping away and grabbing his cane from where it lay propped up against the side table. Wilson hoisted Mara up into his arms, and she reached out pleadingly to House, her movement wrinkling the fabric of Wilson's button-down.
"No, Dad, don't go!" she whimpered.
"I'll text you about any developments with Danny," House said. Wilson gave a curt nod, surreptitiously brushing away a tear from his inner corner with the hand not holding Mara against his chest. Recently, he had been tearing up a lot. His SSRI dosage had been lowered not long ago, and he was no longer feeling the emotional blunting and being physically unable to cry, for better or worse.
House made his way to the door that led into the hallway of the condo, picking up his jacket from the coat tree as he passed, and throwing it on. He opened the door and the bright light of the hallway flooded in, forcing his eyes to adjust rapidly as he took one more look at Wilson, expression unreadable. The oncologist's face was fixed on Mara.
He exited the condo to the quiet sounds of Wilson shushing her, and the floorboards creaking under his strides.
Trudging down the stairs, House pressed the heel of his hand against his thigh.
It hurt. Though there was never really a time when it didn't hurt, and it always hurt when he fought with Wilson.
House thought about where he was heading. Who he was heading to. He tried to picture Danny, but the image was muddy. Would he look like Wilson, but younger? Would he look hardened by his life on the streets? Were you able to see all that was going on in his head displayed on his face? House couldn't make the vision in his mind sharpen.
The only thing he could see was the scrawny, young thing from the picture on the shelf.
"Best of Brothers- Jimmy and Danny 1981" The back of the picture read.
How things had changed.