Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Robert thought his legs felt weak before, but as soon as he saw a chair in the banquet hall, his knees buckled.

 

He glanced around the room crowded with medical workers nervously, feeling his face flush red. With every last bit of strength he had, he straightened out and hauled his ass over to the chair.

 

He gave up on appearing put-together once he reached the table. He collapsed into the seat with a noise halfway between a sigh and a pained whine. Luckily the banquet hall was already buzzing with the noise of the after party and he rested easy knowing everyone's ears were filled with noise.

 

He swallowed thickly, a flash of alarm sparking in his abdomen as he felt bile trickle back down him throat. He crossed an arm to his stomach tentatively. He hesitated before doing so as he worried the comforting action would bring reality into his situation. He wasn't sure if his prediction was right. He was anxious and exhausted regardless.

 

He placed his free arm on the table and rested his head on his forearm. A long flight from Australia, hours of presentations at the medical conference, and no food was an abysmal combination. His fatigue did more than weigh his eyelids down. It pulled his entire body toward the ground, begging him to melt and give in to the exhaustion.

 

He couldn't bring himself to care that he was in a room full of people. He didn't register that it could be considered an issue. He was just tired.

 

He closed his eyes. His eyelids hurt with the strain of the small amount of effort it took to force them shut. They wanted to exist in a half-lidded state. Keeping them shut or open required too much physical effort.

 

He felt a lump forming in his throat. He could feel tears being squeezed toward the openings of his tear ducts.

 

He didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to be unconscious in a room full of strange adults. On top of that, his father would not be pleased if someone among this crowd recognized him and saw him passed out in a public setting. He didn't want to deal with the consequences.

 

His entire body ached. He didn't want to rest and wait it out. He wanted it to be over now. He wanted the cramps in his legs to soothe. He wanted his joints to cease their screaming. He wanted his muscles to relax.

 

He was starving. He didn't want to eat. Eating was the last thing he wanted to do. His stomach was so hollow it burned and clawed throughout his entire abdomen. It dug nails into his lungs and squeezed violently at his intestines. It pressed red hot iron against his ribs and gnawed at his heart. Despite knowing his pain was caused by a lack of food, the thought of eating alone made him feel sick. It had been so long since he'd been nourished he knew his body would reject anything he put into it. He'd been there too many times before.

 

Still, there was something unique about this pain. His lack of a mental appetite was more than his body responding to intense hunger.

 

He didn't feel safe.

 

The sudden trip across the world, the bustling airport, the cramped plane, the endless lectures, the rooms upon rooms of people, the noise, his mother and sister he'd left behind in Australia, and his father he'd had to deal with throughout everything had contributed to his now constant state of fight or flight.

 

He was exhausted, but he couldn't sleep. He was nauseous, but he was ravenous. He was starving, but he couldn't eat. His head pounded, his joints ached, his heart raced, his breaths were short, his hands trembled, and he could feel his muscles disintegrating beneath his skin.

 

There were too many people. There was too much noise. He could feel himself sweating as his insides seemed to burn a hundred degrees, though his hands felt cold as ice.

 

Robert lifted his head and slid his arm out from under his forehead. He rested his elbows on the table and plugged his ears with his fingers.

 

He stared at the silky white table cloth. He imagined how it would look if he succumbed to his phantom nausea and puked all over it.

 

He felt a different type of emptiness alongside the physical lack of food. He felt like he was missing something, a sort of comfort he didn't quite understand.

 

It was a kind of loneliness that came with illness and discomfort. It was the feeling of a fever and a horribly sniffly nose while stranded at school. It was a sudden stomachache while waking up to an empty house.

 

Robert had no one to turn to. He needed comfort and he had no one to provide it.

 

There was nowhere to escape to. He didn't have his home or his bedroom to seek refuge in. He was in a foreign country surrounded by strangers in a strange environment he couldn't even begin to navigate. The entire day as it was had been him blindly following his father around and trying desperately to not lose him among the crowd of similarly dressed people. His persistent brain fog hadn't helped the situation. Really, it was a miracle he hadn't lost his father yet. The older man wasn't necessarily trying to keep track of his son, either.

 

Robert honestly felt sick. He felt something in his subconscious telling him this wasn't right. Something was wrong beyond fatigue and anxiety.

 

Was he dying?

 

In the back of his mind he knew he was being dramatic, but the small flicker of a thought was enough to push him over the edge.

 

He needed to tell his father.

 

He didn't care if he ridiculed him. Really it wasn't that he didn't care, more that he didn't consider it. It was instinctual to the realization that something was wrong. It was as instant as a child running to their parent with sobs on their lips after falling and seeing blood speckling their knees. He didn't think logically. He was a kid who was sick and scared and needed his dad.

 

Robert shot up from his seat. His vision went black and his head swam as he felt the blood drop from his brain. He steadied himself with his hands on the table in front of him for a moment until his vision started to return.

 

He turned around and started walking. He walked without determination, but purely filled by fear and a desire for help.

 

He couldn't think. He could hear his own breaths, rapid and shallow. He could feel his hands trembling and his heart beating.

 

He placed a hand over his chest as he rushed around the room futilely. He knew he was searching for his father, but the image of a man who looked like his dad wasn't forming tangibly. It was just a faint idea, a thought with no strings attached, nothing tying the knot between imagination and reality. Without the connection, there was little hope for the idea manifesting into something real.

 

He tried to remember where his father was. He wasn't necessarily trying to remember, more just wishing his body would somehow know where to lead him.

 

He thought of his father. He conjured the image of him up in his mind, He trusted his body to take him to where he was because he had no other choice. Every damned person in the hall looked the exact same. It didn't help Robert was far shorter than everyone being only thirteen in a room full of adults.

 

Somehow, his rapid scanning and awkward, panicked pacing had led him to his father. He caught sight of his back, his neatly ironed shirt, dirty blonde hair, and black slacks combined creating the image of Rowan Chase in his mind. He knew that on the other side of the man with the familiar stature and ensemble was the face of his father: the only person who he knew and his only hope for getting better.

 

As soon as Robert's eyes locked on his father, everything felt more serious. His heart didn't seem to pound, it only hurt as it rushed to circulate blood throughout his body, All sensation tried to rush out of his body through his fingertips, causing a buzzing beneath his skin centered around the extremities as the anxious energy build up.

 

His legs grew weaker and shakier with every step. The closer he got to his only hope for a remedy to his sudden sickness the more nervous he became.

 

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe his father wouldn't help.

 

As he took the final step to reach his father's side, knees so shaky they almost gave out, he felt nausea swirl aggressively in his gut. It took the place of the instinctual comfort one feels being close to a parent. He felt comforted and safer on the surface, but it was skin deep. In his core and to great reaches outward, he felt a sense of unease. He felt fear. He felt hopeless and stuck. It was like his body was warning him there was no way out.

 

Robert caught the eye of one of the two men his father was talking to. His expression appeared bored and uninterested aside from his eyes, radiant with a shine indicating his interest in the conversation. The excited look in his eyes faltered when they met Robert's, switching for the slightest second to a look of alarm. They shifted to a curious look spreading throughout his entire expression before Robert could register the man's initial appearance. The man narrowed his gaze at the boy. He didn't feel threatened. His gaze felt affirming in an odd way. The man had acknowledged him. The comfort coating the surface of Robert's skin penetrated the slightest bit deeper.

 

The man turned back to the conversation. Robert drew in a shaky breath, turning to his father who was still engaged in the discussion with the other man.

 

"Dad?" Robert forced out. His voice sounded far too small. He almost worried he wouldn't be heard over the noise of the room.

 

His father turned to him, a look of amusement leftover from the conversation lingering on his features before his gaze settled on his son. His smile fell into something of a grimace. He bare his shoulders, an intense look of anger and alarm in his eyes. It was like he understood the gravity of the situation without needing any information. Robert's desperation was clear through the mere fact he had approached his father.

 

"What is it?" Rowan asked. If he was worried, he didn't reveal it. He sounded nothing but angry.

 

His father's aggressive tone was the last straw it seemed. A gag escaped Robert's throat, though he was able to slap a hand over his mouth before the involuntary action inevitably reached his face. He began tearing up, his immensely vulnerable and helpless state contrasting with the way his father stood over him, threatening and firm.

 

"I don't feel good," Robert mumbled, hand still over his mouth. He felt his legs shake beneath him. He felt sobs starting to brew in his chest. He felt the ground sinking below his feet, begging him to give in and collapse.

 

His mind felt dark. His mind's eye had gone blind. His skull felt like it was filled with a deecaying black mass that used to be his brain. Robert was nothing but his body, his trembling, aching, ailing body.

 

The slightest hint of concern that Robert may have wished into existence behind his father's eyes vanished in the blink of an eye. He recoiled, nose scrunched in disgust.

 

He glanced over his shoulder at the two men he had previously been conversing with before fully turning his body to face the adolescent. He bent down slightly, though he was still looming over him.

 

"What am I meant to do about that?" Rowan whispered. His voice was so void of any tone it was more terrifying than it would have been if he'd screamed as loud as he could.

 

Robert let his hand fall slightly from his mouth. He kept it close by just in case.

 

He shrugged. Even the slight, small movement was jerky and unstable. He felt like he had constant cold chills running up and down his spine.

 

"I don't know," Robert answered. He knew he said the words. He felt his lips move and the sound entered his ears, though it fizzled out before it could reach his brain to be processed. The pathway from his ears to his mind was a meat grinder, taking the sounds from the outside world and disfiguring them until they were no longer recognizable.

 

His father's brows knitted together tighter. He opened his mouth to say something, but cut himself off. He shook his head and straightened out his posture, forcing his expression to return to neutral.

 

"I'm a bit busy right now," Rowan said at a regular volume. Robert felt his stomach drop. He felt his head shaking side to side slightly, though he couldn't tell if he was imagining it.

 

His father smiled, bright and charming, before he turned back toward the two men he was previously conversing worth.

 

"Sorry," Rowan apologized. He gestured to his son. "Kids, right?"

 

One of the two men, clean-shaven with light brown hair and a rather friendly face smiled and chuckled somewhat awkwardly. The other man, face adorned with stubble like he'd forgotten to shave before attending the conference and features sharp and intense didn't shift his expression. He seemed stuck in being displeased. He eyes Rowan up and down with a short nod before throwing Robert a quick glance.

 

Robert felt his jaw clench as tight as it possibly could when his eyes met the man's. He felt a surge of both a desire to flee and the intense hurt the betrayal his father's abandonment brought him.

 

He didn't look back as he ran away from his father. He didn't acknowledge the comments from the people he pushed out of the way. He didn't apologize for knocking someone's drink out of their hand. He didn't hesitate or second guess anything. From the moment his eyes locked on the exit, he didn't stop running.

 

Once he'd left the banquet hall, he felt a chill wash over his entire body as he removed himself from the heat of all the bodies crammed into one space. Once he'd fully exited the building, the cold of the nighttime air of winter enveloped him. It was strangely comforting. It was the comfort desired when a hug was declined.

 

He heard the doors slam behind him and he slowed his steps. He breathed in and out heavily and quickly. The winter air stung his esophagus.

 

Robert had no idea where he was. He didn't try to find out.

 

He let his knees give out after begging to for hours. His knees hit the grass, white with frost under the moonlight. He felt the pain just beneath his skin like the signal didn't quite reach his brain.

 

He planted his hands on the ground. The grass was painfully cold under his palms.

 

His breaths were audibly stuttering. It was painful how rapidly his lungs were forced to take in and expel air.

 

His entire body trembled. He couldn't tell if it was from the cold. He didn't care.

 

His head hurt more than it had when he was in the banquet hall. The frustration of that fact alone was enough to push the tears that had been brimming over the edge.

 

He let sobs spill from his mouth and hot tears pour from his eyes. They felt gross and relieving and the same time as they contrasted with the chilled air.

 

A loud cry from his own mouth caught him off guard. He felt his heart drop and his face snap to neutral as if he'd been caught. He knew he hadn't, but it didn't soothe his body's response.

 

He bowed his head toward the ground. His hips settled back onto his heels. He felt the frost on the ground soaking through his slacks. His cries continued in silence, unheard by anyone including himself.

Chapter Text

"How old is your son now?" Wilson asked awkwardly once Rowan Chase's kid had fled.

 

Fled really as the right word for what House had just seen. The kid looked beyond panicked. He was panicked about something in particular. There was something bothering him that he hadn't had the chance to voice. Anything that had him that worked up had to be serious.

 

It was difficult to not dwell on the implications Dr. Chase's response to his son had. What had Robert said? What was Rowan's response? Why did the kid book it out of the room like the police were chasing him?

 

"He's thirteen now," the doctor replied shortly. His smile was tight and he gripped his drink a little tighter before bringing it to his lips.

 

House watched Wilson nod, polite and exaggerating his interest. House shoved his hand firmly in his pocket and turned back to Rowan, taking a sip of his own drink.

 

An awkward silence hung in the air. Typically parents leapt at the chance to discuss their children. They looked for any reason to talk about their kids and once the topic was brought up, the resulting conversation would drag on forever. With Dr. Chase however, he was quiet. He answered Wilson's question about his son in a few words and as quickly as possible. He showed zero desire to continue discussing the topic.

 

Wilson glanced at House. House felt his gaze though it faltered and was off him after a split second. He looked over at him, watching as Wilson struggled to maintain his polite smile as he rocked back onto his heels to fidget.

 

House sighed. He had been enjoying talking with the hematologist, but the banquet hall was beyond overstimulating. The sheer amount of bodies in the space and the raised volume everyone was forced to speak at was beginning to really get to him. The actual conference portion of the medical conference had been bad enough being dragged from room to room by Wilson and trying desperately to not fall asleep after an insanely long flight. Personally, House had wanted to check in to his and Wilson's hotel as soon as they landed, but Wilson was far too eager to soak in the conference and get the "full experience."

 

"I think we might turn in for the night," House said, finally voicing what he'd been wanting to say for the past several hours. Wilson's shoulders seemed to relax and his smile felt more genuine. He nodded, downing the rest of his drink.

 

Dr. Chase seemed slightly taken aback, but he didn't protest. He smiled, wide and professional, and reached out toward House to shake his hand. House accepted. He could feel himself dozing off but was startled awake momentarily by Rowan's firm handshake.

 

House watched as Rowan shook Wilson's hand. The blonde man was the one to leave the conversation, walking around Wilson and further into the room to find someone else to converse with.

 

Wilson sighed heavily. His shoulders slumped further.

 

House chuckled at his friend's demeanour. Wilson rolled his eyes and thrust his empty glass into House's hands. He accepted the glass and started walking toward the exit.

 

"What's the plan?" Wilson asked. His tone was lazy as if he weren't asking a question. He already knew the answer, he just wanted House to say it.

 

"Track down his kid," House answered. Wilson shook his head. House threw him a glance. He swore he caught a hint of agreement in his eyes.

 

House set their glasses down on top of a trash can. He didn't check to make sure they were stable before exiting the banquet hall.

 

The switch from roaring conversation among a large group of people to utter silence just outside the doors of the event was deafening. House felt a sigh escape his lungs and his body slump. His movements stilled for a moment, relishing in the opportunity to pause. When he resumed walking, he felt as if he had weights tied to his ankles.

 

He followed Wilson toward the main exit. He didn't have to wonder what his friend was thinking. They were acting as a unit. For now, there were no decisions to be made and they could exist in their mutual pursuit of a goal.

 

Wilson looked over his right shoulder at House, recognition sparking in his eyes as they landed on him. House nodded toward the door. Wilson nodded, accepting the wordless command and pushing the door open. It welcomed a rush of cold air into the building.

 

Lingering behind Wilson, House didn't understand the sharp gasp he drew in or why he let go of the weight of the door and allowed it to swing into House as he ran outside.

 

House cursed under his breath as the heavy door collided with his side. His annoyance was overshadowed by the absurdity of Wilson's behaviour. He didn't understand what he'd done, his brain wasn't processing anything, he read the urgency in Wilson and absorbed it.

 

House felt his heart drop into his stomach when he turned to Wilson. He was rushing over to a kneeling figure on the ground, its body small and shaking in the bitter cold.

 

House hugged himself tight, his formal wear Wilson insisted he put on for the event doing little to shield from the weather. It was a drying cold, the type that acted as a vacuum to suck all the moisture from his skin. It provided more than a chill from the elements, but also from within.

 

Wilson didn't hesitate to drop down to his knees beside the figure. House, tucking his hands into his underarms, slowed his approach once it was clear Wilson was in the situation.

 

"Hey, are you okay?" Wilson asked, tone gentle but urgent. It was clear he'd intended to speak quieter.

 

The boy jumped back. He sat down and awkwardly shuffled backward, startled. He glanced rapidly between the two doctors before him. His chest heaved as he drew in rapid breaths. Outdoors, all House could hear was the faintest hum of noise leaking through the doors of the banquet hall and the sound of Dr. Chase's son struggling to breathe.

 

Wilson fully settled into his knees with his hands outstretched as if he were taming a wild animal. House stayed standing, arms firmly crossed in an attempt to keep his hands warm.

 

"What's wrong, kid?" House asked. He purposefully kept his voice at a lower volume to reduce the amount of stress, however small, he enforced upon the kid.

 

He seemed to come to his senses all at once. He pinched his brows together and scrunched up his nose. He slowly lifted himself off the ground, legs shaky and unstable. He kept his focus on the two men, eyes still dancing from one to the other as if waiting to see which one would strike first.

 

"Nothing," he mumbled. Wilson sighed and stood up off the ground as well. House scoffed, catching Robert's attention.

 

"Sure, you're just shaking like a baby deer for no reason," House commented sarcastically. The teenager crossed his arms and hugged himself tightly, knuckles white from his intense grip. He stared deep into House's eyes, his own wide like blinking was too much of a risk.

 

"It's cold," he attempted to reason. His body suddenly lurched forward as a cough escaped his mouth. His entire frame shook with the effort of his coughing fit.

 

"Are you okay?" Wilson asked urgently. Tears pricked in the corners of younger Chase's eyes as he continued to cough. He brought one hand to his mouth and the other to his heart. They both shook far too violently for cold to be the sole cause.

 

"Are you okay?" House asked, tone serious. Something was off in a medical sense. The kid hadn't been breathing right from the moment House and Wilson had seen him. He was shaky and it wasn't just the weather, he was unsteady on his feet, swaying and struggling as if he were standing in a foam pit. His face was pale as snow and beyond that, his expression was one of discomfort and fear as if he knew something wasn't right.

 

"What do you want? I don't know you," he spat back. His fingers gripped his chest. His knees faltered beneath him. Sweat clung to his brow.

 

"We're doctors," Wilson assured. His hands were still slightly held out in front of him, though more awkwardly just below his waist.

 

Robert gave a weak scoff. It sounded more like a pained grunt.

 

"No shit," he spat. His teeth chattering and hunched shoulders ruined the tough persona he was trying to portray.

 

Wilson's eyes widened as if he were somehow startled by a teenager cursing.

 

"I'm James Wilson, this is Greg House," Wilson introduced. A cold chill visibly rolled through Robert's spine, wracking his whole body.

 

"This is pathetic," House said half to himself.

 

"House," Wilson said, shaking his head disapprovingly. House didn't pay him any mind. He kept his focus strong on the kid.

 

"You look sick. Are you feeling okay?" House stressed. The kid drew in a sharp gasp of air. For a moment House thought it was a tell, but every other breath seemed to be so desperate he was gasping for air.

 

Robert stood as still as he could aside from his constant trembles. His face maintained its forced glare, though his eyes gave something away. He seemed scared. The look in his eyes coupled with his apparently strong posture only served to make him appear vulnerable and weak. It was a weakness beyond fear. Something was chilling him to his bones. It was painful to watch.

 

"If you're not feeling well, we can get you inside. It's not good to be out here if you're sick," Wilson offered, crossing his arms and shivering for unintentional emphasis.

 

House watched as Robert brought a hand to his throat and rubbed at it uncomfortably. His hand continued to grasp at his heart. His face seemed to crack, slowly giving way to show his fear.

 

"I'm fine," Robert whispered. His eyes were glazed over. The words were quiet and caught in his throat. He continued to sway on his feet. The colour seemed to further drain from his face.

 

"Let's get you inside, find your dad," Wilson suggested with a warm smile. If there had been time between Wilson's words and Robert's reaction, House would have predicted it.

 

He straightened out, stiffening completely for a split second before the shaking returned tenfold. His scornful expression came back, the only window into his true emotions being his wide, fear-stricken eyes.

 

"No," Robert resisted firmly. He choked on the words, coughing once before he gagged, doubling over and bringing a hand to his mouth. House instinctively winced while Wilson, ever the show-off, instantly leapt to Robert's side. He placed a hand on his back as he gagged, not producing anything substantial. Robert winced away from the hand with a guttural whine before two sniffles snuck past his barrier and his hand clasped around his mouth firmer, stifling any sounds as his shoulders hitched.

 

"No Daddy, then," House muttered. Wilson gave him a side glance, but didn't say anything. He straightened out just enough so he wasn't absolutely invading the kid's space, but stayed low enough to be close to his level.

 

"Let's head inside, alright?" Wilson suggested, voice so low and gentle House could barely hear it.

 

Robert's grip on his mouth tensed before loosening. After a moment, his hand fell. He placed it over his heart, shaky and uncertain. His eyes were glazed over though the tears on his cheeks were already beginning to dry.

 

He stayed mute. He shakily straightened out. He drew in a stuttering breath, his expression reflecting his own startle at the sound.

 

House made eye contact with him. He could see the kid looking for something. His face carried the air of having misplaced something important and resorting to asking a parent for help searching for it despite knowing he'd get in trouble.

 

House didn't say anything. He nodded confidently. The kid perked up a little. House started walking. He watched Robert's head turn as he tracked his movements. He heard the distinct sound of two sets of footsteps following behind as he walked away.

Chapter Text

"Are you actually going to puke or are we safe to put you on the couch?" House asked. Robert straightened out, loosening the grip his arm had on his stomach and hesitantly pulling his hand away from his mouth.

 

"House," Wilson, the more comforting man of the two if Robert had to choose, said disapprovingly. House rolled his eyes and sauntered into his hotel room, sighing heavily and discarding his suit jacket on the floor.

 

Wilson sighed and shook his head. His hand was so close to Robert's back and though no contact was made, he could feel the heat radiating for the older man's hand.

 

He heard the door click shut behind him. Robert awkwardly shuffled forward, trying to straighten out. He didn't make it far as the searing pain throughout his entire abdomen only grew worse by the second.

 

"I don't want to deal with cleaning vomit off the couch," House retorted.

 

"You and I both know you wouldn't be the one doing it," Wilson countered, unimpressed.

 

Robert did not feel good. His heart was beating out of his chest, his skin felt cold while his core wouldn't stop producing heat, his whole torse was engulfed in pain, a painful mix of nausea and hunger tore up his stomach, his hands shook as they braced for another dry heave, his legs were jelly beneath him, and his brain seemed to be out of commission, doing nothing but aching and scrambling his thoughts.

 

"You'll be alright, kid," Wilson reassured softly. He felt his hand land between his shoulder blades. He winced and blinked away tears. He felt the doctor's fingers twitch before his other hand slowly found its way to his shoulder and started guiding him further into the hotel room.

 

He clenched his jaw as tight as he could. Every movement was agony. He barely remembered how he got up to the strangers' hotel room. The pain was bad before, but as soon as he set foot into the room, it seemed to completely take over. He had no control. He was at the mercy of these doctors, two random men he had no idea if he could trust, but he had no other choice.

 

Robert's breaths caught in his throat. He knew they were loud. He knew they were ugly. It was impossible to care when every step was a test for his knees and sent jolts of pain up his abdomen.

 

"What's wrong?" Wilson asked urgently. Robert shut his eyes tight and doubled over. Every cell in his core was being fried and his extremities were weak, trembling and useless.

 

He sunk down do his knees with a sob. The hand on his back and shoulder followed.

 

He wanted to go home. He wanted his brain to stop pressing at the edges of his skull. He wanted his knees to be able to support his weight. He wanted food in his stomach without having to deal with the sickening process of eating. He wanted water to extinguish the flames in his body. He wanted the pain from his collarbone to his pelvis to go away.

 

"Just fuck off," Robert yelled. He heart a scoff from above him.

 

"Kid, you're one step away from rolling around the floor clutching your stomach and crying for Mommy. Tell us what's wrong," House said. He didn't sound angry. He didn't sound very soothing, either. He was very matter of fact. He said what he saw. He didn't sugar coat it, didn't try to trick Robert into talking, he was honest. Robert didn't know what to make of that.

 

His stomach cramped violently. He gagged and brought a hand to his mouth as his body lurched forward. Nothing came up but a loud, unstoppable cry.

 

"Alright," House muttered. Robert opened his eyes hesitantly. He couldn't move his neck to look up, afraid it would cause more pain. He saw House starting to crouch in front of him before his hands slowly found his arm and back.

 

Robert flinched away with a whine. House didn't acknowledge it. He slowly started guiding the teen's body. Wilson's hands followed the other doctor's lead.

 

Robert muttered a symphony of "ow's" as he was re-positioned to lean against the lower kitchen cabinet.

 

The hands fled his body. House's left first. Robert hugged his knees to his chest, keeping his head tilted back and resting against the cupboard.

 

He couldn't remember a time he felt more humiliated. By now he was sobbing, tears streaming down his cheeks and pitiful noises leaving his lips.

 

More than humiliated, he was hurt. More than hurt, he was scared.

 

He was immobile. He couldn't stand if he wanted to. Drawing his knees into his chest burnt his abdominal cavity and tore up his chest. Standing would be excruciating if not impossible.

 

He was completely powerless. He was sick and in pain and had no autonomy. He just wanted to go home.

 

"You're hyperventilating," House said. Robert barely registered it over the silent sound of his headache.

 

"He's white as a ghost," Wilson said. "We need to take your temperature, okay?"

 

"I think I'm dying," Robert choked out. He watched through eyes blurred with tears as the pair of doctors looked at each other before Wilson stood up and walked away. He didn't have the strength to follow where he went.

 

"Why?" House asked. He wasn't calm in the sense that he didn't think Robert's problem was serious, but he was clearly level-headed. It didn't help his ailments, but it soothed Robert's nerves a bit. He felt a flicker of safety in his chest despite the pain that surrounded it.

 

Robert couldn't catch his breath. He hugged his knees tighter. He felt his head shaking from side to side.

 

House repositioned himself so he was sat directly in front of him. Robert didn't have to try to make eye contact. His bright blue eyes drew him in like a magnet. It gave him something to focus on.

 

"I can't breathe," Robert started. House nodded, eyes full of determination. Robert could see the start of a mental list in his mind.

 

"You're freaked out, it makes sense. Nothing to worry about," House diagnosed. Robert nodded. He didn't feel an aggravation of his pain. It stayed constant at the movement, still present and searing in his stomach.

 

House's prompt and confident reply urged Robert to continue.

 

"My stomach really hurts and it's like radiating outward and now just my whole abdomen and back really hurts."

 

House nodded. Robert's voice shook the entire time he spoke. He couldn't tell if talking about the symptoms was making it better or worse.

 

"My head really hurts, I can't hear very well but I sort of can? It's really confusing," Robert rambled. He started to panic as the stress of trying to describe what was going on started to get to him.

 

"Don't worry. Keep going," House urged. He seemed oddly invested. Robert didn't expect a random man to be so insistent on listening to him whine when his own father had brushed him off, but he wasn't taking it for granted. He couldn't help but be encouraged by the stern doctor's demeanour.

 

"My legs feel really weak. They feel sort of tingly? I can't feel my hands much, either. I know they're shaking, but I don't really feel it in my hands," Robert continued.

 

"Got the thermometer," Wilson announced suddenly. House's head snapped toward him. He rushed to Robert's side, expression urgent and concerned until he was sat down on the floor and his face shifted to a comfortable, at-ease smile. It was slightly terrifying how quickly he could switch from seeming so worried to the demeanour of a self-assured doctor who had everything under control.

 

"Under your tongue," Wilson said, clearly yet soft as if he were talking to himself but welcomed eavesdroppers. Robert complied, heart beating out of his chest. He felt the cool glass of the thermometer slide under his tongue. He didn't know what to do with his mouth. It had been forever since he'd has his temperature taken.

 

Wilson relaxed slightly, shoulder rolling down his back and his smile perking up a little.

 

"Any other symptoms?" House asked after a beat of silence. He seemed more relaxed. He was still invested and determined, but much of the urgency had already fled his body as if he already knew what was going on.

 

"I feel cold on the outside and hot on the inside," Robert muttered. He felt somewhat insecure. His heart rate was starting to slow and he was finding breathing a little easier. He was still very much in pain, but for what he knew was a brief window, it didn't feel so scary. His pain was just as bad as it was, but with Wilson attentively watching the thermometer he awkwardly spoke around and House laser-focused on his and peppering him with questions, he felt safe. It was odd how he felt safe on the hard floor barely two feet from the doorway of two grown men's hotel room, but he did. He tried not to question it.

 

"When was the last time you had something to drink?" House asked. At the question, Robert's mouth suddenly went dry. It was like all the moisture was sucked out of his mouth and throat.

 

House raised his eyebrows at Robert's silence. Wilson was standing up and walking over to the tap before Robert had a chance to reply.

 

"I don't know," Robert answered honestly. Wilson sat back down beside him and handed him a glass of water. He reached for the thermometer still hanging from his mouth and removed it slowly. Despite his care, the teen's heart rate still spiked at the change in sensation.

 

He stared down at the glass. His skull squeezed his brain. Flames shot through his abdomen, completely engulfing his organs.

 

"What's wrong?" Wilson asked, tone extremely concerned. Robert could barely hear it over his brain being squeezed out through his ears.

 

The weakness and odd numbness in Robert's legs was now complete lack of sensation. Electricity raced beneath the skin of his arms. The glass of water was heavy and cold against his hand. It hurt as if he were frostbitten.

 

The weight of the glass had to be from more than water. He couldn't drink it. His mind was connecting the dots: there was something wrong with it.

 

He squeezed the glass tighter. Tears prickled in his eyes. He was unsure of where the moisture required to form tears came from as he knew how dehydrated he was.

 

Even the thought of drinking water made him nauseous.

 

His stomach cramped violently. He dropped the glass on the floor, it clattered but didn't shatter. He heard someone curse loudly as his arms wrapped around his abdomen.

 

He could feel bile in his throat. He could feel the acid in his stomach. He could feel his stomach folding in on itself, shriveling up and digesting its own tissue.

 

He felt empty.

 

"I'll grab a towel," Wilson said. Robert saw him stand out of the corner of his eye. He only registered it was Wilson who was speaking because of how smooth and gentle his voice was. House had a far different timbre.

 

House sighed. Robert stared down at the floor, fully tense and arms hugging his abdomen tight. He could feel himself shaking. He didn't want to move.

 

He could feel his body giving up. His body was decaying while he was still in it.

 

It was painful beyond comprehension. He felt the pain in his abdomen, lungs, heart, hips, and back, but it consumed his mind. It numbed the rest of his body.

 

He could feel his organs seizing up. He could feel his body becoming paralysed.

 

He felt a pressure behind his eyes. He vaguely sensed movement around him. He didn't understand why he couldn't see it.

 

His ears felt like they were filled with water. He could feel the vibrations in the water caused by sounds, but he couldn't make anything out.

 

He felt a hand on his shoulder. It felt like there was a hand on someone else's shoulder.

 

His eyes slipped shut.

Chapter Text

"Shit," House cursed. The kid slumped forward, his body gone completely limp.

 

Wilson left the soaked towel on the floor where the water had poured from Robert's cup. He rushed to Robert's side and grabbed hold of his shoulders. He slowly lay him down on his side, letting his head rest in his lap.

 

"He's breathing fine," House concluded. He squinted as he watched the kid's chest rise and fall. If anything, he was breathing very deeply. Rapid, but deeply.

 

Wilson slipped one hand out from under Robert's head. He kept the other on his arm, gently rubbing up and down its length while he observed his watch.

 

His expression was serious, but relaxed. His shoulders were taught, but House could see his muscles slowly unravelling as the shock of Robert losing consciousness wore off. It was strange to watch his expression even out, the wrinkled lines of concern be ironed flat and to witness the tension flee his upper body.

 

"What the hell happened?" House asked. He found himself speaking quieter than normal even though Robert was unconscious.

 

Wilson glanced up at House briefly. His gaze on Robert was gentle and worried. He seemed so at peace with the teenager in his care. He was concerned, but comfortable. He rubbed soothingly along his arm without a second thought. He held the boy's body still, supporting him in his unconscious state.

 

"Something's really wrong," Wilson muttered. He didn't have to look House in the eye for him to envision the worry that filled his eyes.

 

"No shit." Wilson looked up and gave him a pointed glare.

 

Robert's eyes fluttered. His fingers twitched. A small whimper escaped his mouth.

 

He started to push himself up. Wilson's hands pulled away from the boy instinctively, but found their place on his arm and back to support him as he sat up.

 

Robert looked confused. He seemed scared and still not fully there. He could see how his eyes refused to focus, his posture slumped, and he leaned toward Wilson.

 

The oncologist watched the boy with an admirable level of compassion and concern. All House could think about in that moment was why his father wasn't the one in Wilson's place.

 

"Robert?" Wilson started softly. The slightest hint of recognition flashed on Robert's expression. His gaze danced around the room, trying to puzzle out where he was.

 

House stood up. He headed into the kitchen to grab the kid another glass of water.

 

"You're with me, Wilson. House is here too. He's getting you water. We're in our hotel room. You passed out."

 

Toast. Maybe toast would do the kid some good.

 

"Sorry?" Robert asked. He sounded scared, voice shaking like a leaf. House could feel the fear radiating off of his tiny body.

 

House limped over to Wilson and handed him the glass of water. His friend gave him a small smile as he accepted it.

 

He turned back to Robert, one hand still on his shoulder.

 

Robert looked part dazed, mortified, and scared all at the same time. He was rigid in a way that he was still, but his body seemed too weak to completely tense up.

 

House grabbed a slice of bread from the gross multigrain loaf Wilson had insisted they buy. He dropped it into the toaster and pushed the lever down.

 

"You passed out. You're with me and House in our hotel room," Wilson explained again. "Drink some water."

 

House leaned against the counter, watching the interaction take place. He didn't want to get in the way.

 

He watched as Robert looked down at the glass, fear taking hold.

 

He shook his head. "No." An arm snaked its way over his abdomen.

 

Wilson's brows pinched together. He pulled the glass back toward his chest. "Why? What's wrong?"

 

Robert ran a hand through his hair. He drew his knees up to his chest and hugged his knees with his free arm. He was trembling.

 

He didn't respond for a moment. The air went still.

 

"You should drink something," Wilson suggested, voice quieter than ever.

 

"I can't," Robert's voice shook. House could hear the tears on his words.

 

"Why?" Wilson asked. He didn't sound like he was prying. It was a gentle suggestion, an invitation to continue talking.

 

Robert shook his head rapidly. He shut his eyes tight. Another whimper left his mouth, louder and longer than before.

 

"Hey, hey," Wilson started, instantly jumping to soothing the teenager. "What's wrong?"

 

Robert looked up at Wilson. He hugged his stomach impossibly tight. House figured he would puke just from the force he was inflicting on his own stomach.

 

"I feel sick," Robert whispered. He spoke like it was a confession of some sort of awful wrongdoing.

 

"Water can help that," Wilson said. House could hear the smile in his voice. He saw it as well, genuine and comforting. Something hurt in House's chest at the sight. His smile soothed the damage it caused.

 

Robert looked at the glass. His eyes were teary. House couldn't tell if they were full of fear or completely vacant. "What if it gets worse?"

 

"We'll be here," Wilson said without missing a beat.

 

A moment passed. Robert took the glass.

 

With shaking hands, he brought the glass to his lips and took a sip.

 

He began chugging the water. Wilson smiled, his eyes meeting House's. House kept his face neutral though his chest warmed.

 

Robert set the glass down. His brows pressed together and his lips were pursed as if he were in thought, though his eyes were returning to their vacant state.

 

He wrapped his arms around his knees. He tilted his chin upward slightly, gaze lifted toward the ceiling.

 

He drew in a shaky breath. House held his.

 

"I don't feel good," Robert whispered. House could hear the panic creeping into his voice.

 

Wilson's face fell. House was certain he'd heard it too.

 

"Better or worse than before?" He asked. Robert shrugged. His eyes were blank.

 

"Different or the same?" Wilson asked.

 

"I dunno," Robert mumbled.

 

"When was the last time you ate something?" Wilson asked suddenly.

 

Robert's arms found their way back around his abdomen. A whine escaped his lips. He brought a hand to his mouth. It hovered just in front of his face, quivering and unsteady.

 

"I dunno," he responded again, voice growing more panicked.

 

Wilson looked up at House with alarm. He tilted his head toward the toaster. Wilson's expression relaxed and he nodded, turning his attention back to the teenager they'd acquired.

 

"Have you eaten since you've gotten to America?"

 

It took him a moment to comprehend the question, but eventually, Robert shook his head. "No."

 

"When did you eat before that?" Wilson's voice was calm. House could hear the concern in his tone, but he was doing a good job not alarming Robert any more than he already was.

 

"Maybe lunch the day before the flight?" Robert suggested. He brought his hand away from his face and hugged his stomach. "I didn't eat during our flights or anything. I don't know how long we travelled for, maybe a day?"

 

The toaster dinged. House pushed himself away from the counter and grabbed a plate.

 

"Does toast sound good?" Wilson asked, smiling.

 

House placed the piece of toast on the plate. It looked small all alone on the dish.

 

Robert's eyes tracked him as he made his way over. He slowly sat down across from his friend and the kid.

 

He held out the plate. Robert stared at it.

 

He shook his head.

 

House sighed. "You need food. You haven't eaten in over twenty-four hours. That's probably why you feel like shit." He pushed the plate closer to the kid. He recoiled, hugging himself tighter.

 

Wilson took the plate away from House. "The symptoms you've described could all be caused by not eating or drinking enough."

 

Robert shook his head. "Eating will make it worse."

 

"Make what worse?" House asked. Robert looked up, his teary green eyes meeting his own.

 

"The pain."

 

"What pain?" House asked firmly. Robert didn't seem to be enjoying House's tone. He recoiled and fear found his features, however he was responding.

 

"My abdomen. It really hurts."

 

"That can be caused by not eating enough," Wilson supplied. "Eat. We'll talk about something else to distract you."

 

Robert glared at Wilson. House took a deep breath.

 

"I'm not eating," Robert said as firmly as he could. It was like a baby deer brandishing its teeth to a coyote. It seemed foreign, an animal that survived through being alert enough to recognize danger to react and flee as soon as it was detected trying to fight back against a predator.

 

Wilson's face was soft. Too soft. House could see an unhelpful and inefficient solution brewing behind those eyes. He chose to speak up before his kinder friend could.

 

"Do you want our help or not?" House asked. He honestly didn't think his voice was too harsh. He wasn't a complete monster, he didn't want to spook the kid, but alas, Robert flinched back. His quivering lips drew in a sharp gasp. His shoulders tucked inward as he recoiled. His eyes were wide with fear. With a simple sentence, House had reduced the defiant deer back to its natural state.

 

It didn't feel good. He ignored it.

 

"House," Wilson started. House held up a hand. He felt the slightest hint of guilt, but that didn't mean he thought he was wrong. That didn't mean he wasn't going to fix this.

 

"Answer," House prompted.

 

Robert stared as House, frozen in place. His chest was rising and falling in time with his shallow, short breaths. His eyes were wide as dinner plates and filled to the brim with a pile of fear.

 

"Do you want to feel better?" House tried instead. He wanted to push, but logically, he knew Robert wouldn't respond to that. He knew from the way he stared at him in silence, little fluffy fawn tail tucked between his legs.

 

Robert hesitated. House saw him come back to himself a little, though his gaze didn't falter.

 

He nodded slowly.

 

Wilson moved the plate a fraction of an inch closer to Robert. He was rightfully starting to get on board with his approach.

 

Even the slight movement was enough to steal Robert's attention. He looked at the plate like it were the coyote he had moments previous tried to stand up to.

 

"You need food," Wilson urged. Robert glanced up at him. He looked back at the toast, posture relaxing the slightest amount.

 

"You're symptoms are caused by hunger. If you eat, your pain won't get worse. You might feel a bit uncomfortable in the beginning having something in your stomach for the first time in a while, but you'll start to feel better," House explained.

 

Robert looked at him through a side glance. He drew in a deep breath, his hyperventilation from earlier coming to a slow. Careful consideration filled his eyes, no longer pure fear. His shoulder blades shrugged down his back. His hold on himself loosened.

 

He glanced away from the toast for a second. House held his breath.

 

Then carefully, with the hesitancy and fragility of the fawn he personified, he took the slice of plain toast off of its plate.

 

House watched as he took a bite. He kept his lips pressed in a firm line as Wilson's spread into a proud smile. He considered how odd Wilson's genuine pride of a random kid was. He wondered what Rowan was up to. He wondered if he noticed his son was missing. He wondered if he cared.

 

Robert looked up at Wilson. His brows were upturned, not in worry, but in annoyance.

 

"You said we'd talk about something," Robert prompted. Wilson's face was overcome with horror. "Remember? To distract me?"

 

The terror left Wilson's features with a heavy sigh. He smiled, relieved, and nodded. House cracked a smile.

 

"Of course," he started. "What would you like to talk about?"

 

Robert took a deep breath. He took another bite of toast. His free arm rested over his stomach, though it was beginning to relax. It was drawing closer to a mere hover. House noted the flicker of pride within his own chest. He wondered how it compared to that of which Wilson felt.

 

"I dunno," Robert said unhelpfully. It wasn't like when he was panicking earlier and barely able to get out the words, he was being a teenager, grumbling and mumbling and refusing to think things through. House was surprised how well he was taking to eating.

 

"How are you liking America?" Wilson asked hesitantly. House rolled his eyes.

 

"Seriously? He's been here for a few hours and has gone through hell, you're seriously asking how he's liking it?" House ridiculed. Wilson scrunched up his brows and nose, recoiling.

 

"It's a very common question," Wilson defended.

 

"It's an idiotic question to ask anyone, especially the kid who just fainted in front of us and had a panic attack over toast."

 

Wilson looked over at Robert at his mentioning. House's gaze followed. He sat comfortably, nibbling on his toast at a snail's pace. He watched their interaction with wide eyes.

 

"I don't get it," he chimed in. "Do you like each other or not?"

 

House raised a brow. "He's the love of my life, why?"

 

Wilson rolled his eyes, face flushing. "He doesn't mean it like that."

 

Robert nodded. He took another crumb-sized bite of toast followed by a deep, somewhat shaky breath.

 

"You're not very nice to each other," Robert observed.

 

"Wilson's my best friend."

 

Wilson snorted. House glared. Wilson raised his arms in defense.

 

"Sorry," he started. "I just didn't think grown men had best friends."

 

"Fine, I take it back. I hate you."

 

Wilson looked at Robert with a lopsided smile and a sparkle in his eye. House couldn't help but smile at his expression. "Now imagine how he treats people he doesn't like."

 

Robert smiled, letting out a weak chuckle.

 

House let his smile fall. He watched as Robert took progressively larger bites of his meal. "How are you feeling?"

 

Robert shrugged. "Sick. Scared. Still in pain. Now that I'm eating I think I feel really hungry."

 

Wilson smiled warmly. House smiled smugly. "Want some more toast?"

 

Robert's eyes widened. "You don't have to get me anything."

 

House scoffed. "Kid, you've fainted on us, cursed at us, screamed at us, and overall been very unpleasant. We aren't going to stop accommodating you now."

 

Robert's face flushed. He didn't respond, continuing to eat his toast.

 

House relished in the disapproving look Wilson gave him as he stood up to fetch the kid more snacks.

Chapter Text

Robert took a small sip of water, awkwardly holding his banana peel in his free hand.

 

His stomach didn't hurt. It felt exhausted like a muscle straining from intense usage following a period on inactivity. He wasn't particularly comfortable, but anything was better than the pain he'd felt earlier.

 

He tried not to dwell on how his stomach felt. He knew he was fine, but it was hard to accept. It was hard to come to terms with the fact he was no longer in pain and the worst was over.

 

He still wasn't a hundred percent. His head ached and he felt like a heap of mashed potatoes on the kitchen floor, but at least he wasn't a heap of mashed potatoes in agony.

 

"I can take that for you." Wilson took the banana peel out of Robert's hand. He sluggishly turned his head to begin protesting, but Wilson was in much better shape and had already stood up.

 

Robert stared down at the water in his glass. He downed the small amount that remained in one sip. Slowly, he lifted himself off the ground. His knees threatened to buckle beneath him, but he was able to steady himself on the counter before he fully straightened out or keeled over.

 

Suddenly, the sound of TV chatter started in the background. He turned his head. House turned back toward him from his place on the couch. He didn't question how he knew he was looking.

 

"Don't fall over," House warned. He turned back toward the TV and absentmindedly scrolled through the channels.

 

Wilson sighed from behind Robert. The teen turned to face him, still leaning against the counter for support.

 

The man was smiling, his expression a mix of frustration and adoration. It wasn't a look Robert had ever seen before.

 

"How are you feeling?" Wilson asked. The sound of his voice soothed Robert. He'd never admit it, but he let his sweet timbre subdue him.

 

He shrugged. He crossed one leg in front of the other as he felt it growing numb. He was gradually loosing feeling in his legs.

 

"Better," he answered. Wilson perked up. His posture straightened and his smile widened. It was a genuine reaction, as reach as a flinch from a scare. Robert had never seen anything like it, he'd never seen such instinctual happiness. "I guess anything's better than before, though."

 

Wilson smiled a little wider and nodded. Everything about this man seemed to calm Robert down. Now that he wasn't actively panicking and fighting for his life, he could bask in the full effects Wilson had on the mind.

 

"What kind of doctor are you again?" Robert asked, deviating from the topic at hand.

 

Wilson's brows scrunched up. He was confused, but his smile didn't fade. "Oncologist. Why?"

 

Robert shrugged. He felt heat rise to his cheeks. He didn't know why. "Just curious."

 

He supposed it made sense. As an oncologist, he likely had to give a lot of bad news. He's stick with patients throughout their entire cancer journeys. Whether they entered remission or passed away. Wilson would be there. People skills was something he needed. Compassion and the ability to soothe with nothing but his natural demeanour was more than an asset, it was a necessity. Wilson was the perfect person for his job.

 

Strangely, knowing there was a professional aspect to Wilson's ability to calm him made it easier to stomach. It made Robert even more willing to give in.

 

"Do you want to be a doctor when you're older?" Wilson asked. He leaned against the counter, mirroring Robert's stance.

 

Robert's brows pinched together. He shook his head adamantly. Wilson's brows raised and his smile fell the slightest amount. Not in an upset way, more so curious and engaged.

 

A pause hung in the air. Robert felt compelled to break it, but he held back.

 

"Why not?" House asked from the couch. He sounded like his mouth was full. Robert turned his head to look at him on couch. He had melted a few inches further into the cushions from the last time Robert had checked on him.

 

Wilson sighed. "What are you eating?"

 

House held up a loaf of bread.

 

Wilson groaned. Robert smiled. House grinned, half-chewed bread visible in his mouth.

 

Wilson mock gagged. "You're disgusting."

 

House shrugged. He set the loaf of bread down on the coffee table, retrieved his cane from beside him, muted the television, and approached Robert. His face had gone serious. It was easy to see him as an authority figure despite being aware of the ridiculous amount of bread in the man's cheeks.

 

"Why don't you want to be a doctor?" House asked. He sounded far too curious. It didn't sit right with Robert.

 

A shiver rolled through his spine. He stared up at the older man, trying and failing to hide how deep those blue eyes pierced.

 

"I dunno," Robert mumbled. House's stare hardened.

 

"That's enough," Wilson lectured. Robert twitched to look over his shoulder at him, but House didn't flinch. His stare kept him in place.

 

"Look, we're happy to keep you around as long as you need, but your father might not be as happy to hear two grown men kidnapped his only son," House prompted.

 

Robert's heart dropped. His stomach felt queasy. He prayed it wouldn't develop into anything more.

 

He looked back at Wilson. He didn't know why.

 

Wilson looked a little heartbroken, but he nodded.

 

Robert's stomach hurt.

 

"He's right. I'm sure your father's concerned."

 

Robert shook his head. He crossed his arms, glaring up at Wilson. "I bet he doesn't even know I'm gone."

 

"He'll be worried once he does," Wilson insisted, taking a step forward.

 

"Will he notice?" House asked quietly from behind him.

 

Robert turned around slowly. He let his arms fall to his sides.

 

House seemed too genuine. His features were strangely soft. There was something in those bright blue eyes that had pinned him in place moments previous that was comforting. Something in his eyes told Robert he knew.

 

Robert shook his head.

 

House straightened out. "You're spending the night here."

 

Robert's eyes widened. He straightened out. He didn't feel sick. He felt light.

 

"You can't force him to stay here," Wilson interjected. Robert saw he looked alarmed, horrified at the thought of having Robert stay the night in their hotel room. If anything, Robert had expected Wilson to be the more understanding one. He hadn't expected anyone to offer him a place to stay, especially not House. He hadn't expected Wilson to object to the idea, either. All it did was reinforce how Robert barely knew these men and yet they had treated him the best anyone ever had.

 

"Fine," House grumbled. Robert's heart sunk again. He felt the blood drain from his face.

 

House stared down at him, expression stoic. "Robert, you can stay the night if you'd like."

 

Wilson groaned, but he didn't protest.

 

Robert smiled. He nodded. "Thank you."

 

House nodded.

 

There was a pause. A moment of stillness where Robert grinned like an idiot up at his saviour and he stared down at him with an unreadable expression.

 

Then House's arms were around him.

 

Robert froze. He swore he heard Wilson gasp behind him. House's heart raced against the empty side of his chest.

 

Robert's fingers twitched. He slowly though without hesitation wrapped his arms around House's back.

 

Robert counted the seconds. He held his breath. He assumed House did as well, his chest level and unwavering as they stood in an embrace.

 

Seventeen seconds and House let go.

 

His expression was unchanged.

 

"Do you need anything from your room?" House's voice was quiet. A little less rough.

 

Robert shook his head mutely.

 

House nodded. He went back to the couch without a word.

 

Robert didn't understand it, but he felt safer than he ever had.