Chapter Text
______________
The case lands on the table at 8:12 a.m.
Foreman drops the file in front of House with the usual, restrained irritation.
“Forty-five-year-old male. Sudden onset ataxia, intermittent aphasia, syncope. All scans normal.”
House doesn’t look up immediately. He’s halfway through a crossword and a bad mood.
“Congratulations,” he mutters. “You’ve discovered medicine is hard.”
Thirteen continues anyway. “He collapsed at work. No toxin exposure. No family history. Symptoms fluctuate.”
Taub flips the page.
“Name’s David Mercer.”
The marker in House’s hand stops mid-word.
Just for half a second.
No one would’ve noticed, except Wilson, who always does.
House resumes writing like nothing happened.
“Autoimmune encephalitis. Paraneoplastic. Or he’s faking to get out of a midlife crisis.”
Foreman narrows his eyes. “You know him?”
House’s expression doesn’t change.
“No.”
It’s a clean lie.
Wilson leans back in his chair, studying him.
“Bring him in,” House says. “Let’s see if he lies better in person.”
The patient is sitting upright when they enter the room.
Salt-and-pepper hair. Intelligent eyes. The kind of posture that suggests he’s used to being listened to.
House steps in last.
David looks up.
And freezes.
The silence is immediate and electric.
“Greg?” David says, disbelief cracking into a grin. “Gregory House?”
The team looks between them.
House stares at him like he’s evaluating a specimen.
“David Mercer,” House replies flatly. “Didn’t expect you to survive adulthood.”
David laughs genuine, startled. “You look exactly the same.”
“You look compromised,” House says. “Explains the hospitalization.”
Wilson’s stomach tightens.
He doesn’t miss the way David’s eyes soften when he looks at House. Familiar. Warm. History-heavy.
“How long has it been?” David asks.
“Twenty-five years,” House answers instantly.
Wilson notes that too.
Foreman clears his throat. “You two…?”
“Childhood,” David supplies easily. “Best friends until college. Then Greg disappeared into medical nihilism.”
“I prefer ‘specialization,’” House corrects.
Wilson feels something unpleasant and sharp coil low in his chest.
Best friends.
There’s a particular tone in David’s voice. One Wilson recognizes.
It’s the tone he uses when he talks about House.
They exit the room for differential.
The team is quieter than usual.
Taub breaks first. “You never mentioned a childhood best friend.”
House shrugs. “I never mentioned my third-grade math teacher either.”
“That’s not the same,” Thirteen says carefully.
House leans against the table. “Symptoms.”
Foreman pushes back. “You’re compromised.”
“I’m entertained,” House replies. “Different diagnosis.”
Wilson watches him too closely.
“You didn’t tell me,” Wilson says lightly.
House glances at him. “You didn’t ask for a kindergarten roster.”
Wilson smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
Later, Wilson finds David alone during imaging prep.
“I’m James Wilson,” he introduces smoothly. “Oncology.”
“David,” he replies. “You work with Greg?”
“For years.”
David smiles faintly. “He always said he’d end up alone.”
Wilson stiffens slightly. “He’s not.”
David studies him. Something perceptive flickers there.
“He still plays piano?” David asks.
Wilson nods slowly. “When he thinks no one’s listening.”
David’s smile softens. “He used to play in my garage. We thought we’d start a band. He said he’d be famous for something.”
Wilson feels that coil tighten again.
“How close were you?” Wilson asks casually.
David doesn’t hesitate. “Closest person I ever had.”
The words land harder than they should.
Wilson keeps his expression neutral.
“Until college?” he asks.
David nods. “Greg cut people off when things got complicated.”
Wilson looks down briefly.
Yes.
Yes, he does.
Back in diagnostics, House is pacing.
“His symptoms wax and wane with stress. That’s not coincidence.”
Thirteen glances at him. “You seem invested.”
House spins on her. “Because I enjoy puzzles.”
Foreman folds his arms. “Or because you don’t want him to die.”
Silence.
House’s jaw tightens.
“Run heavy metal again. And check for atypical MS markers.”
Wilson steps closer, voice quiet.
“You okay?”
House doesn’t look at him.
“I don’t get nostalgic,” he says. “It’s biologically inefficient.”
Wilson nods slowly.
But he sees it now, the slight edge in House’s voice. The extra intensity. The way he won’t make eye contact when David’s name is spoken.
And jealousy irrational, sharp, unwelcome settles into Wilson’s chest.
Because this is someone who knew House before him.
Before the leg.
Before the bitterness calcified.
Before Wilson became the one who stayed.
And Wilson hates that it bothers him.
That evening, Wilson passes David’s room again.
The door is cracked.
Inside, House sits at the bedside, not speaking, just watching the monitors.
David says softly, “You still leave when it gets hard?”
House doesn’t answer immediately.
Wilson steps away before he hears the response.
Because suddenly he’s not sure he wants to.
_____________
They are ten years old and banned from three separate properties.
David holds a walkie-talkie made from scavenged parts. House kneels in the dirt beside a disassembled toaster.
“This will work,” House insists.
“It’s a toaster,” David replies.
“Radio transmitter,” House corrects.
They connect wires that absolutely should not connect. There is a small pop. Smoke curls upward.
David laughs so hard he falls backward into the grass.
“You’re going to electrocute us.”
House considers this. “Only if we complete the circuit.”
They complete the circuit.
The explosion is minor but satisfying.
They run before anyone can identify responsibility.
They are twelve, hiding in David’s garage during a thunderstorm.
Rain hammers the roof like applause.
House sits at an old upright piano someone abandoned years earlier. Several keys stick. A few don’t exist.
He presses them anyway.
The melody is messy but persistent.
David drums on an upside-down paint bucket, entirely off tempo.
“We’re going to be famous,” David declares.
“For what?” House asks.
“Something loud.”
House plays faster. Louder. Like proving the storm has competition.
Neither of them notices how long they stay there. Or that the power went out hours ago.
They never needed electricity.
They are fifteen, sitting on a rooftop they were explicitly told not to access.
Legs dangling. City lights flickering below like a nervous system.
David talks about leaving town. College. Future. Possibility.
House listens, silent.
“You’ll come with me,” David says.
It isn’t a question.
House stares at the horizon. Calculating. Always calculating.
“Maybe,” he answers.
David nudges his shoulder. “You always say maybe when you mean yes.”
House doesn’t correct him.
That’s the closest thing to a promise he ever gave.
The memory shifts.
They are older now. Late teens. Standing outside a school building after dark.
David is angry for the first time House can remember.
“You don’t just disappear,” he says.
House leans on a borrowed cane he doesn’t technically need yet — an experiment, a rehearsal.
“People relocate.”
“That’s not relocation,” David snaps. “That’s vanishing.”
House shrugs, defensive without showing it.
“Attachment complicates trajectory.”
David stares at him like he’s speaking a foreign language.
“You’re not a trajectory,” he says quietly. “You’re a person.”
House doesn’t answer.
He leaves that night without saying goodbye.
Memory ends there.
Not with closure.
With absence.
Back in the present, House realizes his hand is gripping the bedrail too tightly.
David stirs slightly, eyes opening halfway.
“Greg?” he murmurs.
House releases the rail immediately.
“You’re not dead yet,” he says.
David smiles faintly. “Disappointing, I know.”
They sit in silence for a moment.
Then David says softly, “You still run when it matters most?”
House’s voice is neutral. Practiced.
“I walk. Limping prevents running.”
David studies him, seeing too much.
“You built a radio once,” David says. “It blew up.”
House blinks.
“You remember that?”
“You were so proud,” David says.
House shakes his head slightly. “Relieved.”
David smiles. “Same thing for you.”
House doesn’t argue.
Because some variables never changed.
Outside the room, Wilson stands very still.
He hadn’t meant to listen.
But hearing House remembered as a boy loud, curious, alive in a way Wilson has never witnessed creates a strange ache behind his ribs.
Not anger.
Not exactly jealousy.
Something quieter.
Grief for a version of House he never met.
And fear that David knows how to reach that version.
Wilson steps away before House notices him there.
Inside, House adjusts the monitor without being asked.
He doesn’t leave.
Not this time.