Work Text:
"You have to check everywhere. Inside books, behind mirrors, underneath floorboards. Everywhere."
Wilson nods, pulling his coat on. "Everywhere," he repeats dutifully. He's smiling, like he so often does nowadays. "You know, I-"
"No, no, don't do this," House protests, scrunching up his face in disgust. "Don't get all soppy on me now."
Wilson laughs and it's a beautiful sound.
"House," he pleads. "I just wanted to say I'm really proud of how far you've come. You know, after everything..."
House pushes Wilson towards the door. "Get going, idiot. Happy hunting!"
"And what if..." Wilson hesitates, a hand on the door. "What if I miss something? What if I can't find all the Vicodin?"
"Well, it's not like I'll be able to get it after I sell the place, anyway," House replies casually, hand burning where it's still in contact with Wilson's arm, no longer pushing, just holding.
And of course Wilson freezes.
"After you...sell it?"
"I live here now."
"That never stopped you from keeping your old place before."
House shrugs. "This is my home." He looks away. "Unless you don't want me here."
"Of course I do," Wilson huffs. "I'm just...surprised, is all. You don't do well with change, and you've had that apartment for nearly twenty years, and-"
"Yeah, and we can have this condo for twenty years - or more." House uses the hand on Wilson's arm to give him one final push out the door. "Find all the Vicodin, and get rid of it all."
Wilson spends almost all day searching House's old apartment in Baker Street.
He knows the place like the back of his hand, and yet searching every nook and cranny for those addictive little white capsules is extremely challenging. He's found nine (three of which were hidden in spice jars at the back of House's rarely used kitchen cabinets) by the time he finally makes his way into House's bedroom. The final test.
It's strange, really, entering House's bedroom. It feels more intrusive than it has any right being, but he supposes it makes sense. As his friend, Wilson never really had any reason to come in here, except helping after the infarction, or occasionally dragging him into work at 3pm. He stares at the bed for a long moment and thinks of all that could have been, and then turns away, heart clenched.
Rooting around the wardrobe and other drawers provide him with five more pills to throw away. Bedside table, a few more not very artfully hidden, among other things Wilson would like to pretend he hasn't seen. At last, Wilson reaches under the bed and makes a mental note to search for any loose floorboards once he's done sorting through these boxes.
The first few boxes reveal nothing of interest, and finally Wilson grabs the last, an old shoebox that must have been over a decade old. It opens easily, and there's only one thing inside.
A photo, black and white, taken circa 1990. A much younger House and Wilson with their arms around each other's shoulders, grinning at the camera. Wilson doesn't remember the photo even being taken, or what bribe could've possibly been offered to get House to smile for the photo too.
Besides, House has never been one to keep any sentimental photos - not on his desk at work, not tucked away on a bookshelf in his living room, not even on display in his bedroom. And yet hidden under his bed, a picture of him and his best friend from twenty years ago.
He flips it over, confused. On the back, scrawled in House's distinctive handwriting:
H + W
I love you.
"How'd it go?" House calls as the front door slams shut.
There's no reply from Wilson as he hangs his coat on the rack, or as he stalks into the kitchen to make himself a sandwich.
House twists around from where he's sitting on the couch and watches his best friend move around. "Did you find all the Vicodin?" he asks slowly.
He can sense something's wrong. Wilson's shoulders are tenser than usual, the line of his brow more tightly drawn. And he refuses to look up or even acknowledge House's questions.
What did he find?
"Wilson."
Wilson takes his plate to the sink, washes it.
"Wilson, what happened?"
Wilson dries it, puts it away.
"Wilson, talk to me."
Wilson strides over to him, still not meeting his eyes.
He pulls something out of his pocket and throws it down into House's lap.
"I'll talk to you when you tell me why you crossed it out," he says firmly and heads to his room.
House distantly hears Wilson snap the lock on his door shut as he gazes down at the one sentimental photo he owns, and is reminded why he doesn't keep any others.
It's nearing 3am when Wilson wanders into the kitchen for a glass of water. He's lingering in the darkness, only a few slivers of moonlight streaking through the windows, when he hears it.
"It was after your third wedding."
Wilson sets his glass down.
"It was the day of, actually," House continues quietly. He's still sat in the exact same spot on the couch as he was earlier. "You know how I left early that night. I went home…and crossed it out." He sighs. "Your second marriage, I could explain away. Internalised homophobia, or you were just trying to live the 'normal' life everyone expected of you. But the third...it just hit me."
House looks down at the photo, barely visible in the darkness, two faces he's traced a million times over the years.
"Wilson... I didn't cross it out because it stopped being true. I crossed it out because I stopped hoping anything would come of it."
"And now?" Wilson whispers, still frozen in the kitchen.
"You tell me," House answers dryly. "Why are you mad not that I wrote it in the first place, but that I crossed it out?"
"It felt like getting my hopes up and getting them crushed at the same time," Wilson admits quietly. He's walking over to House now.
"I can write it out again, if you want me to," House murmurs, gazing up at the man stood in front of him.
"Just so you can cross it out again?"
"Well," House ponders aloud, only half-joking, "I suppose if I say it, there's no negating or undoing that."
Finally, Wilson smiles. He rests his hand on House's shoulder. "It's late. Come to bed."
Over the next few weeks, the last of House's things are moved into the condo and his apartment is sold. Coincidentally, all his important things - including one old photo - are moved into Wilson's room, where he spends his nights held by strong arms and whispers of I love you and I love you too.