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"Stop pretending you’re a martyr; it’s a boring look on you." House is leaning against the sterile white wall of the surgical lounge, his voice a jagged rasp that cuts through the humming silence of the hospital. He is thirty-four, but in this light, with the shadows carving deep hollows under his eyes, he looks timeless and exhausted.
His gaze is fixed on Wilson, who stands rigid, clutching a consent form for a partial liver donation. Wilson is twenty-three, radiating a terrifyingly earnest youth. There is a flush of adrenaline in his cheeks, a desperate need to be the savior. He looks at the paperwork, then at House, his expression one of selfless resolve. The air between them is thick, smelling of ozone and industrial floor wax. House moves forward, his gait uneven, the physical manifestation of a restlessness that never quits. He doesn't stop until he is in Wilson's space, the heat radiating off his body like a furnace. He reaches out, his fingers gripping the fabric of Wilson’s scrub top, bunching it tight.
"If you die," House whispers, the words vibrating against Wilson’s collarbone, "I am alone."
The admission is raw, stripped of the usual irony. It is a confession of a profound, claustrophobic dependency. House’s breath is hot against the skin of Wilson's neck, his grip tightening, almost bruising. He isn't asking Wilson to be safe; he is demanding that Wilson exist.
The resolve in Wilson’s shoulders suddenly fractures. The weight of the sacrifice—and the weight of House’s singular, obsessive love—hits him all at once. He sags, his knees buckling slightly as the reality of his own fragility settles in. A sob breaks from his throat, a jagged sound that echoes in the small room. He collapses forward, burying his face in the crook of House’s neck, his tears hot and wet against House’s skin.
"I'm sorry," Wilson gasps, the words muffled and wet. "God, I'm so sorry." He's apologizing for the risk, for the terror he has caused, for the arrogance of thinking he could play God without considering the man who anchors him to earth.
House doesn't offer a comforting pat. Instead, he wraps his arms around Wilson with a crushing intensity, squeezing the air out of his lungs, grounding him. He holds him until the shaking subsides, until the only sound left is the rhythmic, frantic beat of two hearts fighting to stay in sync. House pulls back just enough to look Wilson in the eye, his expression shifting back to a focused, clinical sharpness, though his eyes remain dark with lingering panic.
"Alright," House says, his voice returning to its habitual clipped tone, though he doesn't let go of Wilson's waist. "Let's get you on active transport. You need energy after this suicide mission."