Chapter Text
1. INT. Hotel Room - Morning
Sunlight filtered through thin curtains, finally rousing Wilson from a much deeper sleep than he was used to. He was grateful to collect that the woman from last night was already gone. Absence saved him from himself. He had other obligations anyway. If she had stayed, he would be inclined to give her his number, buy her breakfast– naturally followed by an engagement ring, and finished off with divorce papers. Two wives later, failed relationships started feeling like common practice.
He sat slowly, followed by a light feeling in his head. Gathering awareness of his body, he could see that his torso was relatively bruised. Being flexible, he would endure almost anything from vanilla to absolute depravity. He always buttoned to the top of his collar anyway, and would wear a turtleneck if necessary. He propped himself up with his hands, surprised by how cold the bed was on his palms. He looked down to find he was surrounded by a large red stain. It had pooled mostly on his pillow, and spread to his shoulder. He shuffled back quickly, more confused than concerned.
He reached a hand back to his shoulder, which was tacky with blood. He stumbled to his feet and quickly entered the hotel bathroom, flicking the light on his way in. He could see in the mirror that the side of his neck was stained red, reaching all the way down his back, and up into his hair. Fortunately, the bleeding had stopped. He couldn’t remember much of last night, and certainly had not drunk enough to warrant a terrible hangover. It finally occurred to him that she didn’t leave him as a courtesy of a one night stand, she left him to bleed out after going too far. He deserved it. He could not even remember her name.
Leaning over the sink, he found that the source of all the blood was his carotid, which, seemingly torn to shreds, had now scabbed over. How he survived a puncture was a complete mystery to him. He was pale, still lightheaded. He needed to get clean. He needed to get to the hospital to see if he had lost too much blood. If he hadn’t gone into hypovolemic shock by now, he certainly wasn’t going to. Staring in the mirror, he knew he couldn’t go out like this— drenched in blood. Wilson staggered to the shower and turned the faucet. He stepped under the warm spray. He watched as light red trickled off of him and into the drain. He couldn’t believe how much he had lost, and yet he was standing here. Due to the nature of his injury and the state of the rest of his body, he was already imagining the embarrassment of a clinical examination. He had a shift at noon. He could not allow it to be obvious that there was something wrong. He thought it best to come in early, find House, assess the damage, and get back to work.
2. INT. Examination Room - Morning
“Your heart beat’s a little slow. Blood pressure is low, of course. It’ll do you some good. You might stop nagging me.” House did not take Wilson seriously. Wilson had tried to tell some half-baked lie about cutting himself while cooking, before finally admitting the truth. It was hard to lie, as Wilson winced when his friend set the chest-piece over his heart, where he had a superficial bite. House took the stethoscope off, setting it gently on the countertop. He was facing away. Wilson felt more vulnerable on the examination bed. Usually he was the one examining House. House continued, turning his head over his shoulder, “Are you supposed to be in the clinic at all today?”
“All I’ve got planned is administration…easy day. Something could come up, though.”
“Bummer. My medical opinion is that you should be on your feet. You’ll make more blood.”
“Nice try. I know better than that.”
“Foiled again!” He shook a fist at Wilson.
Wilson did not laugh, causing House’s joke to ring dryly in the air. He changed the subject. “You’re sure my vitals were…fine? I lost a lot of blood. A lot.”
"Maybe it looked like more than it was. You know how much the head bleeds.”
“It was my carotid!” Wilson was already exasperated.
House walked back over and leaned in closely to Wilson’s neck, which sent a chill down his spine. Both men were silent. It felt like forever. “Looks like she just missed it,” House concluded.
“Oh shut up. You–You should see how I left that hotel room. I’m sure the staff think I killed that poor girl.”
“‘Poor girl??’ She screwed you up.”
“She probably didn’t mean to!” He stammered through his words.
“You’re exhausting. Let’s check your blood pressure again.” House walked back over to the wall where he had put back the cuff.
“I seriously don’t need a transfusion??”
“I can’t give you my blood, Wilson. We’d have to find a good reason for you to get a transfusion because we certainly can’t tell them whatever scandal you were partaking in last night. Phew. Should have given me a call.”
“I just can’t believe I lost so much and don’t need a transfusion.”
“Maybe you didn’t lose that much!”
“It was a crime scene, House.”
“Maybe it’s her blood and the bite on your neck is a coincidence.”
“Then why is my blood pressure low?”
House gasped. “Wilson. Are you taking viagra?” He feigned a revelation.
Cuddy entered, followed by a brisk knock on the door. She took only a moment to take in the presence of Wilson, instead of a patient. He subconsciously addressed her low-cut top. She refocused quickly to her original intention. “House.” Her arms were crossed, and her presence sucked the energy from the room completely. Whatever energy there might have been.
House turned around slowly. “My arch-nemesis. So, you’ve finally found me.”
“I don’t have time for this. My office. Now.” Her voice, despite her severe words, was a sigh. She tossed a threatening finger to House.
House glanced back to Wilson, who met him with raised eyebrows and tight lips. House flashed him an insincere smile. Cuddy turned around to re-enter the hall, and House quickly followed. His voice rang, far too loud, “Oh please, master, free me from these chains!”
The door slammed behind them and Wilson was left suddenly alone. He was reeling in the abrupt silence. He slowly got off of the examination table, paper crinkling beneath him. In a perfunctory manner, he ripped the paper off of the bed and tossed it in the trash. He let out a long sigh. He was certain there was something wrong. It was too strange that he walked away from the scene of this morning mostly unscathed. Maybe he just couldn’t accept that he was lucky.
3. INT. Wilson’s Office - Noon
Lunch came around rather quickly. He was starving. Not having anywhere to stay, he hadn’t made himself lunch. He was thinking of asking House if he could stay in his apartment again, but he felt like a burden already. His best choice would be to go to the cafeteria and eat something subpar. He felt like a steak, but would prefer a reuben over whatever round beef patties they served. He probably had low iron now, giving him an instinctive craving for steak to replenish it. Maybe to satisfy his wish and medicate his melancholy, he would ask House out for dinner tonight. Of course he would offer to pay–and that was usually enough. Yes. He would pay for House’s meal and ask if he could move back in. It was fool proof. All this thought about dinner exacerbated his hunger –he had to stop what he was doing. He closed his books and set his pen back in his pocket.
4. EXT. House’s Apartment- Evening
Wilson got the last box out of the back of his car–where they had already stayed for a week. He dropped it on Gregory’s doorstep, who pushed it into the apartment.
“I want a whole meal for this. Plus an appetizer.”
“Fine.” Wilson walked back to his car and shut the back hatch.
“Plus drinks.”
“Fine!”
“Plus—“
“Whatever you want, House. I appreciate you letting me stay again.” He walked back to the doorway. House leaned back against the door to open it for Wilson. Wilson went to the couch and tossed himself down. The door latched quietly.
“What time are the reservations?” House asked from behind Wilson.
“Eight. I should have made them earlier.” Wilson lifted his wrist. Three hours.
“Oh, not at all. Now we can enjoy each other’s company. I can get used to the sight of you loafing on my couch all day.” House walked to the end of the couch. He leaned onto his good leg and placed a hand on his hip. He tilted his head to one side. “Oh yes. There it is.”
“...I was trying to rest after the day I’ve had, but it’s fine.” He stood up and went to the box filled with his clothes. They were already folded neatly. Carefully, he began stacking them on the coffee table.
“Rest? You’ve been resting all day.”
“Paperwork is still work. What are you trying to achieve right now??”
“You know what? Let me go find out.” House disappeared into his room.
He disappeared for two and a half hours. Wilson, in pursuit of being good, kept unpacking the entire time, in case House should come out to monitor his progress.
Once he was done unpacking, he went to the kitchen and finished up House’s dishes. Since Wilson had last stayed, it seemed that House’s water pressure had changed. Water sprayed from the faucet much more violently, resulting in a large water stain on Wilson’s shirt. He went to the coffee table where his clothing was still stacked, grabbed a new shirt, and went to the bathroom. He preferred changing in private, sparing himself and House any sort of embarrassment. After a friendship of almost two decades, Wilson thought they might have been more comfortable with each other, but that was simply not the case. Wilson unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it to the side. His eyes wandered to the mirror to check the state of his body. His eyebrows furrowed and he gave himself a solid blink. Drawing his hand over his chest, he confirmed that his injuries from this morning had completely healed. His first thought was that he should have shown House his bruises. Now that they were gone, there was no chance he’d believe that they had disappeared. To his disappointment, the gash on his neck was still there–healing at a regular pace, it seemed. This worked against his credibility. He would have to keep this to himself. He put his new shirt on–a casual sweater.
5. INT. House’s Apartment- Morning
Dinner had gone well, pleasantly. House talked about his newest case, something nerve-related that no scans were illuminating. Nothing to do with cancer or Wilson. House drank. Wilson got a rare steak. They were happy.
Despite the good night, Wilson’s waking mind was met with a dull, numb sensation, and perhaps some pressure on his chest. He hadn’t taken much time to think through the divorce. It had been building up for so long, it felt simply inevitable–and Wilson stopped feeling it altogether. Yes, he was sad it was over. But there was something freeing about it. An undertone of dissatisfaction got him out of bed. A glance at the clock told him that he had work in two hours. Orange light shone through the windows, coloring the entire living room. It was dead-quiet. He meandered to the kitchen and opened the fridge. He would certainly need to find time to go shopping. House had a small carton of eggs, a few condiments, and a pack of beer. Eggs didn’t sound good, leaving him out of luck for breakfast.
His next best distraction would be to get ready for the day. He grabbed a change of clothes and went to the bathroom again. His hair was washed yesterday, and still looked fine. As he buttoned his shirt he noticed that the injury on his neck was reduced to nothing but a small healed-over scar. It should have been a scab for several days, maybe over a week. There was no possible explanation for this. Maybe House would know. House would have to believe him.
Wilson stood in the doorway for a while, undecided. House had a pillow over his head, likely disturbed by Wilson’s early activity. He was rolled onto his side, tangled in his blankets. In boxers and a t-shirt, Wilson couldn’t help but observe the scar on his leg. He didn’t get to see it much. He soaked in the sight of it—the physical reminder of House’s condemnation to pain. To most everyone else, it would remain forever invisible. Seeing him asleep, almost peacefully, Wilson partly hated to bother him—but the other half couldn’t care less. House would likely wake up 15 minutes before his shift, certainly not giving them enough time to talk. If House was in this same position, Wilson hoped that he’d wake him. They were friends, after all. Wilson had watched him sleep enough and was getting self-conscious. He placed his footsteps heavily trying to wake House a bit before going in for the final blow. He set a gentle hand on his shoulder, which quickly jerked away as House rolled onto his back. A desperate hand clawed the pillow off of his face. Piercing eyes squinted up at Wilson.
“What.” was all House could muster.
“I need to ask you something.”
“…Okay.” House propped himself up on his elbows. He repositioned his legs so they would be under the blanket.
“Does this look normal?” He pointed to his neck. House looked up at him for a few moments.
“Does what look normal? I can’t see from here.”
Wilson got on his knees beside House’s bed and tilted his head to show House the wound—or what was left of it.
“…Yeah.” House rubbed his face and blinked sleepily. “Yeah it looks normal.”
“Too normal?” Wilson concluded that House was not gathering what he was supposed to. “You saw this yesterday. It was—it was awful. There’s no way it healed this fast.”
“Then why is it healed?” House tossed himself back onto his side, facing away from Wilson. “What time is it?”
“Around seven.” Wilson stood back up.
“Go back to sleep, Wilson.”
“I need help, House.”
“I need help too.” House raised a hand and tossed it around, gesturing for Wilson to leave the room.
Wilson had more to say, but chose to respect House’s wishes. He left the room, but did not go back to sleep. Instead, he left for work early. He was sure to be loud when grabbing his things and slamming the door—so House, now certainly awake, would be fully aware of his driving Wilson away.
6. INT. Wilson’s Office - Morning
“You know that’s a bad idea.” Faith sat comfortably on Wilson’s couch, supporting herself by leaning her elbow on its arm. Her voice drew out smoothly and calmly, “We’ve talked about this before.”
“I know.” Wilson was in front of her, walking back and forth at a measured pace. Ovarian cancer. Stage four. Long, dark, wavy hair and dangerously deep eyes. Chemo hadn’t made sense for a long time, so she was just riding it out. Despite it all, she was so warm. Wilson couldn’t help but cling to whatever radiance would touch him. It was becoming clear to him that love was composed of temporary thrills. This would end soon enough. Wilson finally sat down next to her. “What now?”
“Maybe you can come to my place tonight and help me pack more. The box for my sister is almost done. I just…the box for my mother is almost empty and…I just…I feel guilty. Once I’m…gone, I don’t want her to feel like I didn’t love her.” Her voice was calm, unbreaking.
“There’s still experimental treatments I could try to get you cleared for.” Wilson, having had this conversation so many times, was disappointed at how clinical his tone was. He wanted to sound more caring.
“It’s okay, James. It really is.”
They both sat quietly. She drew a hand through his hair and rested it on his shoulder. “You can’t stay. But I want you to come over tonight.”
Wilson nodded. House would get suspicious if he stayed anywhere else anyway. Maybe House would have a bit more interest in his case if he thought Wilson was hiding something, but he didn’t want another ethical lecture from the most ethically bankrupt man in New Jersey. So he resolved to avoid suspicion. His voice was almost a whisper, “I should get to work.”
“Okay.” She flashed him a smile and stood up. She looked awfully tired. It was a shame how beautiful she was, so ephemeral. Wilson stood up with her and she wrapped her arms around him. His head rested on her shoulder as he slid his hands up her back. Just as Wilson started to really breathe her in, she broke away. She gave him a small nod and exited his office.
Wilson was alone again. He wandered to his desk and started organizing papers. Faith was the best distraction he’d had in a while–almost forgetting about this morning’s revelation. He wondered for a moment if moving in with Faith would have been better for his health. She might listen to him about his concerns–but he would hate to burden her with that. House would take any burden he laid on him, but rarely responded in a favorable manner. Maybe with more time, House would really try to help him. For now, he was alone in trying to fix the emptiness he had woken up with. He was hungry.
His shift had just started, but found himself going back to the cafeteria. He grabbed a sandwich and returned to his office to eat alone. He stayed hungry.
7. INT. Faith’s Apartment - Evening
“Are you sure you want them by the door? The living room has better presentation.” Wilson was moving boxes for Faith. She sat at the kitchen table, directing his work. Her apartment was clean, basically empty. All of her belongings were packed into separate boxes for family members and friends. There was no box for Wilson, which he concluded was good. He figured it was a bit early. It’s not like she was hooked up to IVs 24/7. Her heart was fine. Her liver was bad, but not near failing. He had seen worse patients with plenty of hope that they would live another year. Faith lived like she would die tomorrow.
“I want them by the door. I’ll see them less.”
Wilson obeyed, placing the heaviest box closest to the door. ‘Neveah’ was written in black sharpie. Faith’s sister. He hadn’t met her family. He was certain she had told them about him, as he was her doctor, but it was unlikely that she detailed the true state of their relationship. It was embarrassing. Amoral. As Wilson picked up the next box, it slipped from his hands, and one of the cardboard flaps scraped against his fingers. The edge must have made quick, sharp contact with his pointer finger, as he noticed a small cut had been made. He quickly looked at Faith.
“Was there anything fragile in there??”
“No, it’s alright. Are you okay?”
Wilson looked at his hand. Blood began to well from the tiny laceration. Instinctively, he stuck the finger in his mouth. The taste of iron coated his tongue. Something electric flickered in his head. A subset of relief. A long-awaited hydration. Unsettled by this reaction to the taste of his own blood, he took his finger out of his mouth and wiped it on his pant leg instead. Which hurt. “I’m fine,” he finally responded. “Just bleeding a little.”
She stood up, using the back of the chair for support. He could see that she was in pain. “Let me get you a band-aid.”
“No, it’s okay, really. I’m sure it’ll stop on its own. I just need a paper towel or something.”
“You don’t want bacteria getting in, doctor.”
She was right. He shouldn’t risk being sick. He’d have to stop seeing her. She disappeared to the bathroom.
Wilson, without thinking, put his finger back in his mouth. The reaction repeated itself, the same as before. He couldn’t get enough. He found himself hoping that the wound would continue bleeding so he could have more. He bit down gently on his fingertip to encourage the blood.
Faith came back out and Wilson brought his hand down to his side again, wiping it. She stood in front of him and reached for his hand. She wrapped a purple band-aid around it.
“Do you need to take a break? You seem tired.” She grabbed his other hand and dragged him to the couch. It didn’t take much effort, as he gave way to her affection without resistance.
He sat down and she joined him, resting her head on his chest. Wilson looked forward.
“You’ve been quiet.”
Wilson was tired of people always analyzing him–finding cues to uncover what was going on in his life. He liked to believe that he was hard to read–but time and time again girls would read him like a book–and when they didn’t, House would sleuth out the remainder. “I’m just…thinking.”
“Ohh, sure. Well, if there’s anything you need to talk about, my rumor-telling ability has an expiration date. Scout’s honor.” She raised three fingers.
“It’s nothing like that.”
“Well, what is it, then?”
“I’m just worried about you.” Wilson lied. Sure, he was worried about her, but not enough to put him in an odd mood. Selfishly, he was concerned about himself. “Is this really it?”
She sighed. She broke away from him and stood up. “I think it is.” She walked to a drawer chest and started digging through it. “Tell me, Dr. Wilson, is my prognosis Heaven?”
The change in subject relieved him. He sat forward, “It depends on what you believe, I’d say. Where are you at?”
“It’s been…maybe three years since I prayed.” She grabbed a small plastic bag along with thin rolling paper. She set it down on the table. She laid out the paper and sprinkled a generous portion of cannabis flower. At the edge of the paper, she placed a filter. “Can you roll this for me?”
“Yeah.” He carefully pinched the ground cannabis to put it into a triangular shape for a smoother burn. He didn’t smoke, himself, but he had rolled for a few patients and was familiar by now. “Well, prayer doesn’t make or break it. What about predestination?”
“I certainly don’t believe in that.”
“What do you believe?”
“I believe that…people are good. And…that they deserve somewhere nice to go once it’s all over.”
“I think you’ve been good, Faith.”
“You don’t know anything about me, James.”
“Well the Torah doesn’t say a lot about Heaven. If it does exist, nobody knows how to get there. It’s better that way, right?”
“I didn’t know you were Jewish.”
“Ehh…ish. It’s not really a choice. I was raised religious but…I don’t know now.”
“What broke the spell for you?”
“Med-school opened my mind. Then cancer just…blew it.”
“Coincidence.”
“It’s normal.” Wilson pinched the paper and rolled it between his thumb and his index finger. He licked the edge and sealed it. He gave it a small pinch to ensure it wasn’t too rigid. He smiled and handed it off to Faith, who grabbed a lighter and flicked it, lighting the joint. “Are you allowed to do that in here?”
“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” He appreciated the reference. They both loved old movies. He wanted to ask if he could stay and cook her dinner. They could sit and forget about everything. He could sleep in her bed. He’d leave early in the morning to get back to work. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t want to get too close.
“Careful, I thought you were trying to go to Heaven.”
“What, I can’t say ‘damn?’”
Wilson shook his head and gave her a sorry look.
“I live my life for love and duty. I’m not expecting something in return. I’ll say damn as much as I damn-well please, and love my neighbor while doing it. If I make it up there, great. If I’m just…shut off and that’s it…well, at least it won’t hurt anymore.” She took a deep inhale of the joint and blew it into Wilson’s face. He winced and let out a small laugh.
“I think you’ll be alright.”
“Maybe.”
Wilson knew he wasn’t like her. The opposite, maybe. He focused on external righteousness, but there was something ruined about him. He was selfish, a liar, and always running from good things. He was a martyr for the wrong cause. Himself. He admired brave people like Faith, surrounded himself with them. Maybe with enough exposure, he might be good too. He glanced at his watch. Soon, House would no longer believe that he was simply staying late with a patient. He stood up.
“I should go.” His voice was plain. “I can come back tomorrow to finish this up.”
“I would like that.”
He nodded. He bent over and gave her a small kiss on the temple.
“Goodbye, James.”
“Goodnight.”
8. INT. House’s Apartment - Day
One week had passed. Faith was fine. House was getting increasingly disenchanted by Wilson’s presence in his home. Wilson stood in the bathroom, about to do what had become almost routine. Using his razor for shaving, he sliced his pointer finger and needily drank from it. He tried not to think about it. It was the only thing that made him feel satiated. He had been cooking elaborate high-protein, high-calorie meals for himself, occasionally sharing with House. Nothing was enough. He had gotten used to hunger, a dissatisfaction that never left him. He lost five pounds. He hadn’t looked this skinny since his first marriage. Before he tried his finger again, he would get so hungry he couldn’t focus on anything else. His fingers were callused and scarred. The wounds were usually healed by the end of the day, but because he was yielding to this impulse so often, they were always present. He had played with the idea of obtaining blood from outside sources, but was frankly disgusted by the thought. This new habit had only inspired more self-loathing, but since he refused to talk about it, he saw no solution other than to indulge. It could be worse— at least it wasn’t getting worse.