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It’s a rather peaceful day at the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Nurses are walking around, some of them pacing leisurely with folders under their arm, and some frantically flipping through pages fast enough that they might slip out of the folder itself. Patients being rushed to and fro various rooms, an elderly couple off to the right celebrating another few years of life—classic hospital activity. But there was one thing off from Wilson’s routine– more specifically, a certain diagnostician who often steals his coffee, food, and prescription pads.
The oncologist looks around, catching a glimpse of Lisa Cuddy before shrugging one shoulder and continuing on his usual route to his office, seemingly unphased by the disappearance of his best friend. Maybe he’s just late, Wilson thought as he passed by House’s office. Chase, Cameron, and Foreman all sat around the glass table, eyeing each other with confusion, occasionally gesturing to the empty chair in the room adjacent to theirs.
Wilson shakes his head and throws away his empty cup of coffee—that he is very thankful of being able to finish this time—and shrugs off the very evident stares that he is getting through the glass of House’s office. As he makes a turn, the eleva– “Wilson!” A familiar voice shouts. “Have you seen House?” The oncologist inwardly sighs, but still turns around and greets Foreman with a tight smile.
“No, I haven’t seen him. Why?” Wilson asks, exasperated and somewhat desperate to get back to the familiar peace that he finds within his own office.
Foreman sucks in a breath and sighs, shaking his head as he does so. “We’ve got a difficult patient here, and we kind of need his input.” Despite Foreman’s tightly-knit eyebrows and squared shoulders, it’s evident that the team needs help. And Wilson’s not sure if he’s willing to simply give up his own patients for House’s.
After a period of thought, Wilson drops his head ever-so slightly and sighs. “What do you need?”
It’s the worst day to be sick, House thinks.
Spit and phlegm sit on House’s palm as he comes down from another cough attack. He looks to the left, spotting a near-empty bottle of Vicodin. His eyes narrow in that way it does every time he gets an outlandish idea for a patient’s illness, but his gaze softens and he limps helplessly to the bathroom.
House’s eyebrows furrow as he looks upon his weary and yellowed bathroom, but he doesn’t think too much of the familiar place as he coughs again, this time directly into the sink. His slick palm rests on the edge of the sink, and he doesn’t pay much mind to it as his reflection is the first thing to greet him when he looks back up.
His eyes are puffy and red, he’s got snot on the edge of his nose, it’s just gross. House sighs and turns the sink on, washing his hands from the sweat and dirt and grime from the day. Sure, he’s practically been in the house all day, ignoring calls from his entire department (plus Wilson), but you can still be tired from being incredibly sick, right?
.. Right.
As House monitors his temeprature, hobbling back off to his bedroom, a shrieking ringtone from the living area blasts through his apartment, nearly causing him to slip and fall on his ass. He grumbles a few curses under his breath before staggering back all the way to the living room to dig into his jacket in a poor attempt to at least silence the ringing before it wakes him up fully.
Now incredibly irritated, House lifts up the jacket and shakes it a couple times before his phone comes flying down, narrowly missing his foot by half an inch. Reaching down and grabbing the crying thing, he almost rips the phone open as he smashes his thumb on the red button to decline the incoming call, without bothering to even check the caller ID.
The—ironically—sick doctor, instead of doing the work of going all the way back to his bedroom, chooses to throw himself on the couch and stare at the ceiling for an odd amount of time, before closing his hot eyelids and letting darkness engulf his vision.
Wilson sighs.
“What is it?”
“House’s not responding.”
Foreman throws his arms up and looks around, exasperated, before going back to Wilson. “So that’s it? We’re just going to let this patient die because he’s too busy inhaling Vicodin in his apartment?” He raises his voice in a fit of frustration and gains the attention of some of the nurses, but ultimately sighs and shakes his head. “Can you help us?”
The oncologist in front of him rubs the back of his neck, pursing his lips in some sort of unreadable expression. “I’ve got my own patients. You have House’s number, go spam call him. If not you, then Cameron, or Chase. I can’t always be the one to pick up after his messes.”
He turns on his heel to leave for the elevator, but–
“Wilson!”
He squeezes his eyes shut and balls up his fists. He’s got his own patients to save. He can’t keep cleaning up after House.
But he doesn’t have any appointments and he doesn’t have a patient that requires immediate care.
But he can’t keep postponing his own duties just to help House’s department!
At the same time, they have a patient that’s in need of help, and that’s what matters most, right?
Wilson sucks in a breath and turns back around.
.. Right.
Hours pass, and House still hasn’t moved from his spot on the couch. Quiet, ragged breaths escape his open mouth as he stares at the edges of the glimmering sunlight that pours in from his window. He knows his team probably has a patient—if not several—and he knows they probably need his help. But at the same time, they’re all qualified doctors in their respective fields, so why would they keep calling to him for help?
They’ve got Wilson, too. They can probably get him to help them with just a cup of coffee and a box of salad. Hell, they probably don’t even have to do all of that, they can just ask him and he’ll come right over to their floor.
House snickers and holds out an arm, inspecting the various veins and arteries that bulge through his skin. He remembers having to memorize all of their names and falling asleep in the process. He’s not sure if he passed his finals, but all he remembers is going out that night and not remembering how he got back to his dorm.
Fun times.
And he remembers the first time he met Wilson. A small, scrawny guy. Almost thought he was still on his final year of highschool. He remembers all those times he’d scrunch his nose at the mere sight of him helping a girl carry her bags— each week it was a new girl, too. He remembers the first time they spoke, and when House told himself he’d never speak to Wilson again.
But they’re friends now— at least he hopes so. Friends at arm’s length, maybe. Friends who dose each other and nearly give each other heart attacks. Friends who kind of hate each other. He’s not too sure how to feel about the whole thing, really.
On one hand, he enjoys the company. On the other, he hates how Wilson knows the sides of him that he doesn’t really show others. He hates how Wilson takes the time out to buy him a second coffee—even if it’s drugged. He hates how Wilson simply just lets him steal his food. He hates how Wilson can just show up to his apartment unannounced, and–
Three strong knocks shake him out of his thoughts, and nearly off his couch too.
“What the hell?” House groans, and after a few minutes, gets the courage to pull himself off the couch, not bothering to fix up his shirt or the various tear marks that stain his skin from his high fever. Thankfully, the coughing stopped, but the fever doesn’t seem to give him a break, even after he’s basically slept through the entire day.
Peeking through the eyehole, he sees a face he hates. A face that reminded him of the scrawny boy who looked like he was still on his final year of highschool. What was his name again?
“House!”
That wasn’t quite right.
.. How did the door open?
Wilson barged into his apartment, easily stepping over various small items like empty vicodin bottles, shoes, and a bunch of shirts that never really met the washing machine. His mouth spews out a bunch of words that House can’t really make out in the heat of the fever, but it seems like the oncologist is incredibly angry with the way his eyebrows are furrowed and his lips move at a hundred miles a minute. Not to mention the flailing of the arms and the walking in circles part.
“Are you even listening to me?”
House blinked. “What?”
Wilson rubbed his face with both of his hands, a frustrated sigh falling past his lips. “What is going on with you today? First you don’t respond to my calls, or your team’s calls, or even Cuddy’s calls! It’s like you went completely MIA!”
House blinked again.
“What’s wrong with you? You never stay silent for more than 5 seconds unless Cuddy’s talking to you and wearing some lacy top that exposes her cleavage.” Wilson scoffs, marching towards House angrily, before breaking out into a sprint as the older man comes toppling down with his eyes rolling to the back of his head. Wilson just barely manages to catch him before his nose shatters on his hard wood floor.
…
“What’s wrong with you?”
He’s not sure how, but someone’s in his apartment. Doing something in his kitchen. What’s he laying on? He’s sure he doesn’t have any pillows on his couch. Why does his head feel cold?
Sitting up, something cold and hard and wet falls down on his lap. It’s blue. Why is it cold and why does he feel hot? Why can’t he think?
The person sighs, “Even while you’re sick, you still can't fathom the idea of listening to someone else's instructions.” Glass clinks somewhere beside him. It’s a bowl on his table.
“You got too sick and you collapsed in front of me. You’re lucky your nose didn’t split into a million pieces. I made you soup so at least by tomorrow you’ll feel good enough to go and visit the patient who was supposed to be under your care.” The person says, moving the bowl closer to his position on the couch.
House looks up, and the fuzzy face of Wilson greets him back. “Why are you here?” He whispers, some sort of irritation lacing his coarse voice. He blinks away the blurriness, only to find that the one who placed him on the couch is gone.
A faraway voice almost yells, “Because you weren’t answering your phone,” There’s a pause, then a series of angry-sounding footsteps get louder and louder until House can see the furious face of Wilson above him. “And you left me to handle your entire department, even while I had patients of my own!”
House winces at the volume and turns on his side, away from the oncologist. “But my team’s competent. They can handle their own patients.” He waves Wilson off like he's just some mosquito, like one of his older patients who never stopped talking to him.
A sharp sigh pierces through the air, and for a moment he wants to turn around, to see how disappointed Wilson looks, but he's not willing to risk letting words fly out of his mouth– especially not while his head feels hot and his thoughts are foggy and all he can think about is the pain in his leg that cuts deep into his soul.
There's silence for a while, broken by the rushing water of House's kitchen sink. He's not too sure what Wilson is doing now. He shifts onto his back again, eyes drifting to the ceiling that he hasn't been able to clean, then to the top of one of his bookshelves that hold older patient documents that hasn't been touched in a very long while. The rushing water stops abruptly. His head hurts a bit more because of the sudden silence.
"The patient lived."
Oh. Well, that's good. But why does it sound like he's complaining about saving lives? Is Wilson finally getting tired of the goody-two-shoes façade he puts up every day?
"Barely."
House's mouth pulls into that sick, smug look that he has every time something intrigues him.
A wet plop rings in his ears before he registers a cold rag being thrown on the top of his head. That look from before washes away as he realizes just how high his fever is, and for a moment he melts into the cold sensation, but another sigh brings him out of his relaxation.
Blue eyes meet brown, and House narrows his gaze as Wilson simply doesn't say anything for a while.
"Why are you helping me?" A coarse, sick voice breaks the silence.
"Because you're a doctor– you need to get better so you—"
"We both know it's not because of that." House snaps.
Wilson throws his arms up in exasperation and he looks around as if trying to ask for help from some invisible person in House's apartment. "Who's going to be stealing my only breakfast now, if you're sick?" The oncologist mutters under his breath, but just loud enough for the ill man below him to hear.
"And?" House pushes, the corners of his lips curling upwards into some sort of teasing smirk, the kind he uses whenever he sees Chase and Cameron alone together. Or that one time Foreman came to work late. Or that other time he and Cuddy were talking and he could tell she–
"Because we're friends, House. There, are you happy now?" There's a tone in Wilson's voice that he doesn't use often, the tone where he's not sure what to say or do. The tone whenever he has trouble admitting something embarrassing, or when House finds something whenever he overanalyzes the guy.
Wilson sounds irritated. Wilson sounds happy. Wilson sounds…
"We're just friends?" House playfully scoffs, followed by a dry cough that racks and shakes his lungs. This has got to be the worst thing he's experienced ever since he got shot.
The man in front of him grumbles, but doesn't bother to say anything back. Instead, he walks in front of House, nudging the bowl of warm soup closer to the edge of the table.
A weight dips into the couch where House rests, and he briefly wonders how Wilson manages to fit into the small space between his feet and the other end of the couch. Oh well, no matter. At least he can now reach the bowl on the table.
He sits upright, and for a moment his head spins and his vision goes blurry. Blinking away the sudden visual clutter, he catches the confused stare of Wilson— who's now holding the TV remote and acting as if he owns the apartment.
"What are you doing with that?" With pupils narrowing like a threatened animal, House looks between Wilson and the remote.
Wilson shrugs, "Monster Jam World Finals is airing. Unless you don't want–"
"Now you're putting words in my mouth!" The bowl of soup almost flies out of House's hands as he leans forward in surprise.
The oncologist laughs and turns on the TV, fingers automatically pressing the buttons to House's favourite channel. The TV starts up, already in the middle of a competition between Grave Digger and Maximum Destruction– but House doesn't seem to mind, not with the sickness that doesn't want to give his body a break.
He catches a glimpse of Wilson in the corner of his eye—all the details muddy and his figure just a blob of colour—and suddenly, he sees the boy he met in college who looked like a high school student.
His best friend.