Work Text:
“I have cancer, House.”
Those four words have had the man in a state of carelessness for two months now. He couldn't care less about anything. He wants to be there for Wilson. For his best friend.
Best friends.
That's all they are.
Despite living together for months, working together for over a decade, after House bailed him out of jail, after everything. Merely “best friends.”
Some part deep inside of House—a part that goes deeper than the damage in his thigh—wants to be more than. The other man, on the other hand, has expressed no interest. Obviously, the homosexual jokes still carry on, making his heart clench each time. Since Stacy, he's never felt like this. And even with her, it was never like this. Never.
There's just something about Wilson that makes him want to be… less of an asshole. More caring. More considerate. To let his guard down. This never happens because House has no idea how to flip the switch in his brain.
Brain?
Heart?
He doesn't even know where the switch is.
He's already faked his death; he's already free.
Yet, he doesn't feel free. Not truly.
The two of them, even while technically dead to everyone they've ever known, have been crossing things off of Wilson's bucket list entry by entry.
"Mountains? You said something about mountains."
"I said I was going to climb one?"
"You implied."
"I believe I was referring to your massive ego."
House looks up from the magazine he'd been skimming through, looking at the once vibrant man now reduced to a pale ghost of himself.
"Right."
Wilson smiles, albeit weakly. "Cheer up, House. The least you could do for me is try to act less miserable."
"That would be impossible." He sets down the magazine. "Much like your ability to climb a mountain."
A sound that resembles a chuckle slips out. It's not a real chuckle, however—hollow, bitter. less... Wilsony.
House occasionally putters around, adjusting the IV that feeds morphine into Wilson. Just something to numb the dull ache in his chest. That's what they tell each other. What else is there to say? What else is there to talk about? The cancer? Nobody wants to talk about it. Nobody wants to talk about the pain, about the cough, the days when he can't keep any food down. It's all horrible.
The worst part of it all?
The sheer irony.
Wilson is an oncologist with cancer. He's spent many years treating and comforting patients with much more severe cases of worse kinds of cancer.
He feels lost now. What is he meant to do? Take care of himself? He can't. He physically cannot take care of himself. Maybe that's why his first three marriages ended in messy divorces.
The cancer has begun to metastasize to the surrounding tissue, beyond his thymus glands and into his pleura (lining of the chest). Hence, the worsening cough and chest pain.
In the small studio apartment that House paid for himself using cash, it feels more like a home than anything they've ever known. Wilson has his spot on the couch (which they end up sharing most nights anyway), and the latter has his own room. It's just easier that way, with all of the medical equipment that House took from the hospital before he left/faked his death/died/drove off into the sunset together on motorcycles.
They didn't flee very far to begin with—only so far as New York. Wilson wanted to be near a beach of sorts. His condition, however, worsened more quickly than they could actually plan something. As a result of such, he spends most of his days couch-ridden or staring out the window. "Peoplewatching" has become their new favorite hobby; they can't do much of anything to begin with since House decided the best way to get out of prison would be to fake his own death. No planes, nothing that requires a passport or ID. It would be too suspicious, might even get them in real trouble.
That could separate them, and House wouldn't risk that for the world.
Wilson is his world.
So they sit inside most days, their routine mind-numbing by now.
Wake up.
Wake Wilson up.
Give him medication—a mix of Morphine, Zofran, and Prednisone—for the pain and inflammation.
(Attempt to) Get him to eat.
Something like that. He doesn't even know anymore—that's how many times he's repeated the process.
And sometimes, on rare occasions, the two of them sit on the balcony.
"The stars are pretty tonight," Wilson says quietly.
"I think you're looking at the streetlights. There's much more light pollution here than in—"
"Just look."
House begrudgingly looks up at the sky. It's beautiful, he can't lie to himself.
"It's alright."
"Alright? Do you see the Ursa Major?" his non-IV arm raises, pointing at the constellation. "It's more than alright."
House glances back up. "It's... Pretty."
A smile creeps onto Wilson's face. "There it is."
"What?"
Wilson squints his eyes. "It's taken me almost two decades to get you to admit that something is beautiful other than the prostitutes you hire."
"Pretty and beautiful are two different words." House rolls his eyes.
"They're synonyms."
House taps his cane on the concrete, pulling something out of his pocket. He'd ventured out while Wilson was asleep, stopped by a dispensary. The clerk didn't card him because he's very obviously old enough.
"Did you really go out and buy enough cannabis to kill a horse?"
"Not enough to kill a horse, but yes, I did buy some." He tosses the bag of blunts onto the coffee table. Wilson hums in amusement, but turns back to the sky. House lights one of them, taking a long drag while still looking up. "Are you afraid of dying?"
"What?"
"Are you afraid of dying?" he asks again.
Wilson looks away thoughtfully before turning back with a shrug. "Maybe. I don't know."
"Well, it's a yes or no question. You've known you're going to die for months now. The treatments didn't work. I'd assumed you'd accepted your fate by now." he passes the blunt to Wilson without a glance.
The other man smiles bitterly, taking a longer drag than House. Euphoria floods his veins. "Sure, I've accepted it," he pauses, turning to directly look at House, who's still staring at the sky. "But that doesn't make me less scared. That doesn't make it easier to live with. To wake up every morning wondering if today will be the last."
House glances over, but quickly looks away. "Maybe you're depressed."
"I'm not depressed, House. I'm dying. Depression isn't a symptom of cancer, it's a symptom of death." his voice starts to tremble. "Look at me. Please."
House shakes his head almost imperceptibly, trying to fight the tears that form at the corners of his eyes. "I can't."
"Yes, you can." Wilson reaches out, turning his head manually.
He doesn't stop the tears from falling. "I don't want to lose you. I can't. I can't live without you."
Wilson's half-smile fades into something pained. "House—"
The memory from months earlier flashes in his mind. After dinner, one of many failed attempts at getting him to do more chemotherapy.
"I need you to tell me that my life was worthwhile," he remembers the tears streaming down his face, the hiccuped breathing that shattered something inside him. "And I... I need you to tell me you love me."
He remembers his own response.
"No," he'd said. "I'm not gonna tell you that unless you fight."
He still feels like an asshole for it. Regardless of whether Wilson had more or less forgiven and forgotten about it.
"No. I told you- I told you to fight. And you didn't. I told you I wouldn't be there unless you fought. And you didn't. And I'm still here. I'm a fucking hypocrite. I can't lose you. I don't know what I would do if one day, you didn't wake up," he rambles on and on, everything spilling out like a room filling with quicksand. "...And I love you so much, Wilson."
Wilson's hand freezes on House's cheek. "What...?"
"I love you."
Slowly, the hand falls, landing in House's lap.
"You? Love me?" he asks. House doesn't say anything. Doesn't move. Time seems to slow. "You're messing with me."
"I'm not."
Wilson scoffs, surprise taking over his features. "Wow, okay." he pulls his hand back, running it through his greying hair.
House looks away, grabbing his cane and pushing himself up.
He regrets saying anything at all. It's obvious Wilson doesn't feel the same way—
"House," he says suddenly.
"Hm."
Wilson stammers, "I think... I think I love you, too."
House spins around in shock, having no idea what to say. His heart starts fluttering in his chest. Wilson stands up slowly, carefully. House drops his cane and pulls the man into a tight hug. So tight, in fact, that Wilson has to tell him to let go.
"Sorry, sorry—"
"Are you okay??" Wilson asks, genuinely concerned. Where's the usual asshole that never apologizes? Where's the man who makes everything about himself?
"Our entire relationship revolves around you."
The words echo in House's head. He's sorry. He's so, so sorry. He didn't realize how sorry he was until he knew he was going to lose his best friend.
Best Friend.
Best Friend.
Best Friend.
Best Friend.
Or more than?
Now that they both know this, will they stay friends? Or will they be more than?
"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine." House wipes away tears that he just realized had been streaming down his face like two waterfalls on opposite sides of the globe.
The two of them go back inside, sitting on House's bed. Not the couch like they usually would. They don't say anything—not to each other, and certainly not to themselves—just simply sit there. Wilson puts his head on House's shoulder, staring out the window. House can practically feel the heat radiating off of him. He presses the back of his hand against Wilson's neck.
"You have a fever," he says quietly.
"Hmm.. I always do, though, don't I?"
House smiles slightly. He's not wrong, but it still hurts. "You do,"
Wilson's cough starts again, turning his face into that of twisted agony. He doesn't have much time left.
"Lean forward," House says, putting a hand on his back and rubbing slow circles. The fit leaves Wilson dizzy and tired. They always do. "Lie down." He slowly guides him onto his back, lying him on the bed.
Wilson's eyelashes flutter as he tries not to let sleep claim him. He's still scared.
"You'll be okay," House promises.
"Mhmm... Sure." Wilson murmurs back as the blankets are pulled up. He's so tired.
Once his eyes finally close, House checks his pulse and breathing. Slow and slower. He tinkers with something on the IV, then sits down on the opposite side of the bed.
"I love you," he whispers to the sleeping figure, brushing a piece of hair out of his face. He looks... Peaceful. Whether that be from the extra dose of morphine or death coming to collect... God, he hopes he gets at least one more day. He'd promised they'd go to the beach someday.
One more day.
That's all he wants.