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If you were to go back in time and ask a younger James Wilson where he’d be in 20 years, he’d probably say something along the lines of “oh, with any luck, I’ll be a pretty successful or, uh, well-known oncologist.”
He never would’ve guessed that he’d be sitting in his apartment, staring blankly at his test results for the umpteenth time this week.
He has cancer. How ironic.
____.____
Sigh.
Staring at the paper isn’t going to make the truth change, he thinks, so he sets the papers down on the coffee table and stands.
He needs a drink. Maybe two. It’s not like it’ll make any difference, now.
He doesn’t pay attention to which alcohol bottle he grabs, just takes and pours. Probably not a good idea, but he doesn’t really care. He sits on the couch, glass of unidentifiable alcohol in hand, and takes a sip. Bourbon. House’s favorite. God, House.
House, his only real friend in the world. House, the man who has tried everything to change his mind about his choice of no treatment. House, the only person who Wilson has ever really lo-
His phone rings.
Who’s calling him? He just wants to wallow in his misery, but it’s probably important. He gets up to check the number.
It’s House. Of course it is. Probably calling with another crazy, multistep plan to trick him into agreeing to treatment. Wilson would admire his dedication, if it weren’t so annoying.
But no, he’s done. He’s done letting House trick him and lie to him. He declines the call, and goes back to the couch.
The phone rings again. Wilson already knows who’s calling. He ignores the call again, lets it ring out. He’ll give up eventually.
The phone goes silent after House’s fourth try. Thank god. Wilson sinks into the couch and takes another small drink of his bourbon. Why did he even pour this again?
He sighs, setting the drink down on the coffee table next to the test results that stole his future. He curls up on the couch, feeling pathetic. What happened to him? He’s dying and he won’t even let his best friend talk to him.
Someone knocks on his door. It’s probably his mail - he ordered himself some new things, to enjoy for the last few months of his life. He doesn’t particularly want to get up, but he needs to sign for the packages, so he walks dejectedly over to the door.
He opens it a crack, peeking out at the person standing in his doorframe. God damn it. It’s House.
Wilson slams the door in his face before he has a chance to speak. He’s about to make his way back to the couch but House knocks again, slamming his fist on the door. He groans loudly, turning back to the door and opening it to stop the assault on the wood. He glares at the other man, eye twitching.
“What do you want, House?” He snaps. It would seem the alcohol he drank had a bit of an effect on his temper.
House sighs, looking around and shifting his grip on his cane slightly. If Wilson didn’t know any better, he’d say he was.. nervous? He’s getting irritated. “Spit it out. If it’s another ploy to trick me into treatment, I don’t want to hear about it,” he states, already preparing to shut the door again.
House picks up on this, and blurts out something completely nonsensical. “I’m pregnant.”
What?
What?
He’s what?
Wilson stares at him for a long while, House becoming visibly more uncomfortable with each passing second. How odd.
Wilson bursts into hysterical laughter, making House jump ever so slightly. “You’re- you’re what?” He cackles, doubling over with disbelief on his face. House must be losing his edge, getting desperate in order to make such an absurd claim. He looks up at House, grinning. “Nice try.”
His smile fades, however, when he sees the look on House’s face. He looks .. honest, almost sad. Wilson straightens up. “You’re joking, right? This is just another of your elaborate lies to keep me around,” he asks, unsureness bleeding into his voice.
His stomach plummets into his feet when House shakes his head.
“It’s yours,” House says quietly, placatingly. Oh god.
He’s lying, right? He must be lying. But why would he lie about something like this? Is this some sort of last-ditch effort to keep him alive?
But, that night. Only a few weeks ago. In the car. They’d… oh. Wilson pulls away from the door, stepping back, and House takes that as an invitation to take a step into the apartment, leaning on his cane.
“I’m not lying, Wilson. Not this time.” He says, voice all too soft, all too earnest. He’s really overselling this, isn’t he?
Wilson finds himself filled with anger at him. This lie is too far, too much. House knows how much he wanted a family, and he makes a mockery of it.
The bastard.
Wilson’s about to lunge at him, eyes filling with angry tears, but then House reaches out with his free hand and gently takes Wilson’s in his own. He guides the hand to his stomach, looking mildly uncomfortable about the whole ordeal but doing it anyways.
There’s a slight firmness there, something that not even House would be able to fake convincingly.
Wilson’s eyes widen, looking down at where his hand is carefully placed over House’s abdomen, then up at the older man. “You’re.. you’re not lying?” His voice cracks as he speaks. House shakes his head, hand tightening around Wilson’s where it lay over his stomach.
“I don’t think I could lie about this sort of thing if I tried,” House responds, cracking a small smile.
The tender moment doesn’t last long, though, and House lets go of Wilson’s hand, making his way over to the couch.
He flops onto cushions, making himself comfortable and kicking his feet up on the coffee table. Wilson grimaces, but says nothing. He sits down next to House, glancing over at him and then down at his stomach nervously.
“You’re actually-“ Wilson begins, but House cuts him off, “I’m pregnant, yes,” he states plainly, folding both hands over his torso like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “How did you find out?” Wilson asks, genuinely curious, yes, but also trying to find any possible holes in House’s story that could expose him, looking for proof that maybe House was lying to him this whole time.
That’d be preferable to… whatever shitshow is going on right now.
“I had.. suspicions, so I took a test,” House explains. Wilson coughs incredulously. “A test? One of those flimsy plastic things from the store?” he sputters, sitting up. House scoffs. “I don’t particularly want my pregnancy test in the hospital database.”
That’s actually pretty reasonable. It’s unlikely that many people know about House’s… situation.
Wilson takes a deep breath. “Are we keeping it?”
“We? I thought you were dead-set on dying in a few months,” House responds, turning to the other man.
“Well, if I have a kid on the way, I’ll do the treatment. I want to be there for our baby.” God, that feels weird to say, but also… good? He can’t quite explain it.
House turns away suddenly, and Wilson scoots closer. Is he… crying? “Woah, House, are you okay? What happened? What’s-“ House nods, sniffling a bit. “Hormones,” he says simply. Good excuse, but Wilson can see through it.
He moves his hand to hover over House’s stomach, nervous but wanting to feel it. House takes his hand and gently places it on his abdomen, and after their talk, now that Wilson knows what’s going on, it just feels different. There’s a person growing in there, isn’t there? A person that he and House co-created. “Our best work yet,” Wilson murmurs aloud, earning a small chuckle from House.
“Our best work ever, dare I say.”
____.____
If you were to go back in time and ask a younger James Wilson where he’d be in 25 years, he never would have told you that he’d be in a doctor’s office being told that he was officially cancer free, and he certainly wouldn’t have guessed that when he left that office, he and House’s daughter, Lilian, would be there to run towards him with surprisingly clean hands.
“She started grabbing at people’s shoes and got her hands all grimy. We had to wash our hands real good, didn’t we?” House says, approaching slowly. Lilian giggles, nodding.
Lilian was the best thing to ever happen to the both of them, and despite their rocky start, neither Wilson nor House would change anything for the world.