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Wilson walked through his favorite door and smiled at the sight of House staring intently down at something on his desk, wearing his glasses.
“Hey,” he said brightly as he walked up to the desk, shoving his hands in his pockets. House looked up and smiled back, and Wilson’s heart melted a little.
“You’re late,” House said playfully, making a show of checking his watch.
Wilson rolled his eyes fondly. “I noticed you made no effort to let me know.”
“I was busy too,” House protested, his face scrunched into a fake-offended pout before his voice returned to normal. “Cuddy threatened double clinic duty for a week if I didn’t do the paperwork myself.” He scowled. “Punishing me for the eight-thousand-dollar fiasco, like it’s my fault people are lying morons.”
Wilson winced in sympathy. It was all he had heard about from House for the past couple days — after yet another diagnosis brought on by a revelation of cheating, the confrontation between the couple had turned ugly, damaging quite a few things in the patient’s room and breaking a window. The husband had been escorted out by security, presumably arrested, and the wife, who’d had to pay a hefty fine after she was discharged, had screamed about the hospital and House in the lobby until she was escorted out too. House had vowed to him that night over beers and takeout that he’d never talk to a patient again, and for once, Wilson agreed with him.
“Well, you know how she gets when her hospital’s attacked,” he said as he sat down in front of the desk. “She won’t rest until everyone pays.”
“I’d rather she just slapped me now and got it over with,” House quipped, wiggling his eyebrows exaggeratedly, and Wilson gave him an obligatory look that he was sure was softened by the amusement on his face.
“You almost ready for a lunch break?” he asked hopefully. “Pretty sure Cuddy can’t legally starve you.” He wasn’t expecting House’s face to fall a little, averting his gaze to take off his glasses, and a jolt of worry immediately flooded the well-attuned House center of his brain.
“I’m really not hungry,” House said quietly, with no trace of humor, sarcasm, or dishonesty.
Wilson quickly eyed the cafeteria coffee cup pushed off to the side, ignoring the ridiculous glimmer of relief in his stomach at finding an explanation. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to spoil your dinner?” he joked as he gestured to it, dearly hoping that was the reason, that he hadn’t just made light of something that was upsetting House enough to ruin his appetite.
House blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion as he studied Wilson’s face. “You didn’t leave this?”
“No,” Wilson said almost apologetically, imagining House returning to his office to find a fresh cup of coffee on his desk and smiling to himself, grateful to him for the pick-me-up.
House frowned, looking at it, and Wilson almost thought he saw a hint of disappointment in his face. “Huh. Figured it was you.” He took his lip between his teeth, turning to squint into the empty conference room. “Maybe one of my minions is angling for something.”
“Maybe they just like you,” Wilson suggested dryly, and House snorted. “You mind if I bring something up here?”
House made a grand, sweeping gesture that said, mi casa es tu casa, and Wilson chuckled as he got up. He had just reached the elevators when a thought occurred to him, and he grinned. House may not be hungry now, but he’ll appreciate a snack later. The grin softened into a fond smile. Or more likely, dessert.
When he poked his head back in, though, he didn’t get past “Hey, do you want-” before the words died on his lips. House was slightly hunched over his desk, clearly in pain, but it didn’t look like…
“House?” he croaked, his voice higher than normal. “Are you okay?”
House’s breathing was heavier than it should have been, he realized as he quickly made his way over to the desk. He resisted the urge to cross that unspoken barrier and fuss over him, touching an arm or a shoulder to reassure him (and himself), and he only bothered because he knew House would hate being coddled.
“Yeah,” House muttered gruffly without looking up, probably in an attempt to ward off his worry, but Wilson knew better, and he wasn’t having it.
“House, talk to me,” he pleaded. “What’s going on?”
Realizing there was no way out, House sighed faintly. “My stomach hurts,” he admitted, wincing a little despite what Wilson assumed were his best efforts. “No big deal, really.”
“How bad?” Wilson asked softly, sitting back down to make it clear he wasn’t going anywhere until he was sure House was okay.
House grimaced. “I’ve had worse.”
“I’m sure,” Wilson said hollowly, ignoring the sting of fear in his chest as he scanned House’s face for any giveaways. “Any other symptoms?”
“Wilson,” House warned half-heartedly, giving him a look that nearly begged him to drop it, but no way in hell was that happening. Wilson spared just a thought to the irony that if he were in this situation, House would pester him until the end of time to find out what was wrong and accuse him of lying until he broke, if only to stop the madness.
Part of him loved that.
Wilson stared back at House, unblinking, allowing the worry to bleed into his face. House dropped his gaze, his stubborn, defiant expression crumbling. “Little nauseous,” he said flatly, and maybe Wilson could have hid his alarm better, but he didn’t bother, and House’s face turned stony. “Pain tends to do that,” he growled, but Wilson knew the anger wasn’t directed at him…if it even was anger.
He considered pressing him on what ‘little’ really meant, but experience told him it would be an exercise in futility, and he couldn’t waste time when something was wrong with his best friend. “Did you eat anything different recently? Weird?” he asked instead, fighting back the fear that bubbled around his heart. People get upset stomachs all the time, I’ve certainly seen it enough. Food poisoning, gastroenteritis…
But this was House, and he worried about him more often than he wanted to admit even to himself.
“No,” House mumbled, planting his elbows on the surface of the desk and resting his head on both fists a little too firmly. Alarm bells went off in Wilson’s head, but just as he opened his mouth, House quietly said, “I’m dizzy.”
His voice shook just slightly.
Wilson swallowed hard and stammered, “Okay, we- let’s go down to the clinic, get you checked out.”
House lifted his head, looking at him miserably, and it pulled at Wilson’s heartstrings in the split second before he noticed the drool dripping down House’s chin.
And for a moment, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, could barely think — something’s wrong with House, something’s really wrong — and House’s face changed at the sudden terror in his eyes, shakily reaching down to his chin and wiping at the drool. Helplessly, Wilson’s gaze clung to the motion.
The coffee cup caught his eye again.
And Wilson felt the world drop out from under him.
“House, when did you drink that?” he choked out frantically, voice louder than he could control as his heart jerked in his chest, violent panic crushing him.
House looked back up at him, deep into his eyes, and for the first time in a long time, Wilson truly thought he might lose him.
House was scared.
Frozen, he could only stare desperately, pleadingly, into the eyes he loved so much — the brightest, deepest, warmest blue he had ever seen — in the endless second before they lost focus, and House collapsed onto the desk.
“NO!” Wilson screamed, the world blurring as he grabbed for the phone to call a code, screaming for someone on the floor, anyone, to help him as he checked for a heartbeat with one hand.
———
They almost lost him once. He’d stopped breathing when they were almost to the ER, and it took them too long — too fucking long — to get him there and intubate. Wilson had turned away once they did, gasping painfully into his hands and fighting back burning tears, forcing down the little voice in his head that counted the seconds. He’s not breathing. He couldn’t look. Couldn’t look, because his best friend wasn’t breathing and that would make it real. Couldn’t be the last time he saw him.
He only looked back when he heard the bag deflating and reinflating, every pump keeping House alive for another breath.
And then there was the poison.
Wilson stared down at House, now extubated and sleeping peacefully in the ICU, as if he would be gone if he looked away for a second. He hadn’t left his bedside since he was transferred. He wanted…needed…to be right there when House woke up.
He was tired, so tired, but it didn’t matter. Not until House was awake, alert, and every bit himself. Not until he was sure he was safe.
Wilson gazed into his sleeping face tenderly. He was still paler than he’d like to see, but that was okay. As long as House was alive, nearly anything was okay.
He could have died. He almost died.
If I hadn’t come back to offer him dessert…
He couldn’t bear to imagine. He never would have forgiven himself for leaving.
Wilson forced a long, deep, shaky breath, blinking rapidly and looking back down at him to satisfy the screaming core of his brain.
House looked small. He hated it when House looked small, and it had happened one too many times for his liking. Every time he saw House hurt, or vulnerable, his heart withered a little.
Being with him always helped. Helped both of them, he hoped.
House’s eyelids twitched, then fluttered, and his facial muscles moved in a hundred little different ways that made the knot in Wilson’s chest finally loosen, allowing him to take a full breath for the first time since he’d looked at that fucking coffee cup.
And then those bright blue eyes opened halfway, latching onto him, and Wilson felt a huge, warm, wobbly smile spreading embarrassingly wide. House’s mouth twitched up a little, his eyes crinkling just slightly, and Wilson barely restrained himself from reaching out to hold his hand.
“Hey,” he whispered, beaming weakly at him, and House’s face slowly rose into a real smile.
“Hey,” he echoed hoarsely, grimacing and squirming to regain the use of all his stiff muscles. “Been out long?”
“Not too long,” Wilson said quietly, trying as hard as he could to block out the past few hours.
“Who was it?” House asked, and Wilson stared at him, taken aback and confused, before he realized. A wave of nausea made its way up from the pit of his stomach and flooded his head. Of course House would want to know who…who…but he had refused to think about it since Cuddy’s second cautious, concerned visit less than an hour ago.
“Your last patient,” he forced out, his voice uneven. Security had checked the cameras and talked to the cafeteria workers, and Cuddy had confirmed the woman’s identity. “They’re tracking her down now.”
“Familiar territory,” House murmured, looking down at himself without moving his head. “At least no bullets this time, huh?” He was frowning a little, but seemed otherwise unfazed.
Wilson felt sick.
“Think this is a sign to look for a new career?” House continued, looking lazily up at the ceiling, oblivious to the agony stabbing in Wilson’s head and heart. “Being a magician or a mad scientist might be fun. Or maybe I could have the best of both worlds, boycott patients altogether…”
Wilson broke down, sobbing violently, and he saw House’s head snap to him in shock just before he buried his face in his hand.
“Hey,” House said quietly but urgently, more serious than Wilson had heard him in a long time. He felt House’s fingers nudging at his arm, pulling gently, and he choked as he leaned in to hug him tightly.
House wrapped his arms around him, holding him close and rubbing his back — a little awkwardly at first, but he quickly found a natural rhythm, and then it was the most soothing experience of Wilson's life. Neither of them wanted to break the silence, just basking in each other’s presence and safety.
“I’m sorry,” House finally whispered thickly, pulling him just a little closer in a desperate effort to stop the painful sobs from assaulting his best friend.
“You stopped breathing,” Wilson blurted out, burying his face even further into the warmth of House’s neck. “You stopped breathing, and you could’ve died-” His voice shattered at the very sound of it.
“I’m here,” House said softly, and Wilson could hear and feel him swallow. “It’s okay.”
House almost died.
“I love you, you asshole,” Wilson sobbed, almost without thinking. But it was true, and House had to know — had to know he loved him, because he had come close to never hearing it.
House’s breath hitched, and he swallowed again as he squeezed him tighter.
Wilson smiled against his throat.