All Good Things (2/4)

[rubberbutton]

Title: All Good Things
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: R for language, adult themes and brief sexuality
Words: 23,000 (in four parts)
Summary: Life, death, and a double shot of irony.
Warning: character death, cancer, medical liberties
Works consulted: here.
Betas and thanks: Thanks to elynittria and bironic for their thorough and insightful betaing and to nightdog_writes for help and encouragement

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

House shifted impatiently on the thinly cushioned waiting-room chair; he was really, really beginning to hate Princeton General. It was ugly; the architect should be shot for his crimes against humanity. And its furniture could serve as implements of torture if you ran out of racks. His hand ached and he looked down to see that he was gripping his cane so hard that his knuckles were white and his fingernails were digging into his palm. With a conscious effort, he relaxed his grip. Wilson looked a lot better than House felt; though his face was grim, he seemed calmer, resigned as he read a novel that was probably off Oprah’s book club. He wore the same sort of expression he used at the post office when the queue wound its way through the maze of roped line.

House wiggled a little more, stealing the armrest. “Are you sure you don’t want this done at—”

“No,” Wilson said calmly but firmly, before House could finish with “Princeton-Plainsboro instead?” They’d already had this discussion—three times, actually—a week ago, last night, and finally in the car on the way over. House wanted Wilson to get the chemoembolization at PPTH, where he could keep a better eye on him, where he knew all the staff and, more important, how to manipulate them. But Wilson was adamant about not letting his treatment interfere with work. At least that’s what he said. House had the vague suspicion that his ulterior motive was to keep House from having the home court advantage.

House leaned in further and tried again. “I just think that—”

“Don’t care,” Wilson interrupted, licking his index finger and turning the page. At this proximity House could pick out the silver threaded through Wilson’s dark blue tie; only Wilson would dress up to go to the hospital.

“Why here? I’ve got a friend who says he can do it for half the price behind the Seven-Eleven,” House snapped, having lost the argument, but unwilling to be gracious about it.

A nurse called Wilson’s name, and they both looked up. “The doctors are very good here, House,” Wilson replied mildly, standing to speak with the nurse, who gave him a clipboard of paperwork to fill out. “You’re just annoyed you can’t boss them around.”

“That is so not it,” House protested. Wilson ignored him, concentrating instead on the forms. “You know, they’re not actually trying to get you with the fine print. You don’t have to read it.”

“Do you usually sign things without reading them?” House could hear a lecture coming on and headed it off at the pass by grabbing the clipboard and pen from Wilson’s hands. “Hey!”

“They’re not going to be able to read your left-handed chicken scratch,” he explained, setting the clipboard against his knee. “Did you know that the Latin for left is also a word for evil and ill-omened?”

Leaning over his shoulder, Wilson watched as House filled out the information form. “Interesting. Does ‘right’ mean meddling and self-involved? Uh,” Wilson paused, looking a little unsettled. “I have to say, it’s a little bit creepy that you know my social security number.”

“What? You don’t know mine?” House feigned an innocently surprised expression.

With a grimace that was actually more smile, Wilson answered, “Actually, no. I barely know my own.”

House waved the pen around under Wilson’s nose. “See? This is why it’s good I do these things for you. I’m such a good friend.”

“So good, in fact, that you’re putting yourself down as one of the people allowed access to my medical files,” Wilson observed wryly.

“Only because I care,” House assured him.

“Caring, nosy.” Wilson held up his hands as though weighing the two words.

“Po-ta-to, pah-tah-to,” House shrugged.

“And since when is your relationship to me ‘sworn blood brother’?” Wilson asked, still reading over his shoulder.

House sniffed deliberatively. “I thought it had a nice ring to it. I can put that you’re my love-slave if you prefer.”

“Blood brothers it is, then!” Wilson chirped brightly.

Suddenly House’s beeper went off, startling them both. He fished it out of his jacket pocket and checked the display briefly before returning to the medical form.

“And that was…?” Wilson prompted after House failed to volunteer.

House gave a half-shrug of utter indifference. “Cameron.”

“Emergency?” Wilson guessed, his expression knowing.

Why the hell did the hospital need to ask the same damn question on three different forms? It was staggeringly inefficient; he sighed and answered it anyway. “Only a very small one. Is your mother’s birthday May 5th or 15th?”

“If it was very small she wouldn’t have paged you,” Wilson replied, ignoring the deflection. “You do realize you have patients? A patient, at least. Who isn’t me.”

“Next you’ll be saying I’m a doctor or something.” House scowled, casting a dark look in the direction of a young woman who was regarding them with open interest. She realized he’d noticed her and picked up a magazine.

“Cuddy will be mad if you neglect your duties because of me,” Wilson reminded him unnecessarily.

“As opposed to neglecting them because I want to?”

“House.” Wilson’s eyes narrowed, eyebrows nearly meeting.

“That’s my name; don’t wear it out.”

“House,” Wilson said, more insistently.

House gave him a petulant look. “You’re wearing it out.”

Wilson pointed at the door. “You hate sitting around in waiting rooms. Go do your job.” House hesitated, but Wilson caught his moment of weakness. “Really. Go, now. Or I’ll start telling you about reaching self-actualization.” House got up so fast he nearly overbalanced.

“You sure?” he asked one last time, unsure if he wanted permission to go or to stay.

Wilson nodded firmly. “Go harass your patient instead of me. Fix whatever’s wrong with him.” Reluctantly handing the clipboard over, House studied the lines of Wilson’s face and wondered how he could be so calm.

“Maybe he likes bleeding rectally; who are we to judge?” He poked Wilson’s thigh with the end of his cane. “I’ll be back this evening.” Wilson opened his mouth to offer some kind of inane protest, but House poked him again, harder, and he shut up. House turned and left, wishing his patient would just die already and quit wasting his time.

It was much later that evening when House managed to leave the patient who apparently didn’t enjoy bleeding from every orifice. Wilson was groggy but awake when House arrived. He actually looked pretty good for someone who’d had a catheter threaded up their femoral artery to pump their liver full of poison, and House said as much.

Wilson grinned. “Thanks. I’ve lost some weight, too.” House pulled up a chair to the edge of Wilson’s bed, propping his feet up on the edge, his sneakers streaking the off-white bedspread with grime. At least that was something to break up the pervasive beige of Wilson’s hospital room. Beige tile, beige curtains, beige bedside table.

“Is that a sandbag in your lap or are you just happy to see me?” House asked, eyeing the weighty bag now compressing Wilson’s femoral artery.

Wilson’s eyebrows waggled suggestively. “Oh baby. You wanna check my incision?”

House laughed and moved closer. “Actually…” he started, but Wilson caught his hand as he reached for the blanket.

“It’s fine,” Wilson told him firmly, squeezing his wrist a little in warning, ready to put up a fight. “I don’t care if they cut me open with a switchblade; I am not letting you inspect my groin.” He was adamant, but also in a weakened condition. House considered risking the struggle and, by Wilson’s rather alarmed expression, his speculation was evident.

House withdrew the hand—better to strike when Wilson was unsuspecting. “Relax. Your virtue is safe.” He scooted his chair to the foot of the bed, reaching under the covers. Wilson started squirming nervously, clearly not liking where this was going. “Stop,” House snapped. “I’m just checking your pulse.” He groped for the pulse in Wilson’s foot and Wilson flinched again. “What?” House demanded in exasperation.

Dipping his head sheepishly, Wilson mumbled, “Tickles.” House rolled his eyes and tried again, this time finding it. A little quick, perhaps, but still strong and even.

“I guess these bunglers haven’t actually managed to block your femoral artery,” he grudgingly pronounced.

“Well, I asked them not to,” Wilson assured him, with wide-eyed innocence. Snatching the chart from the foot of the bed, House examined it.

“Temperature’s a little elevated.”

“Which is normal.”

Dropping his messenger bag on the bed, House rummaged around until he found what he was looking for. “Here.” He held up the thermometer in triumph.

“You’ve got to be kidding. They took my temperature an hour ago.”

House was undeterred, holding up the thermometer for Wilson to take. “That was an hour ago. It may have risen.” Or the nurse could have read it wrong. “So open up.” Wilson stared at him a moment, and then gave a long-suffering sigh, taking the thermometer from House. He placed it carefully under his tongue, still managing to keep his put-upon expression.

“’Appy?” Wilson demanded around the thermometer.

“Ecstatic,” House replied, looking through his bag again. He produced a bag of Doritos and several magazines, arranging them carefully on the bed. He handed one to Wilson, who glanced at it and threw it back at him. “What? I thought you were a fan of Better Homes and Gardens. You can’t have Playboy—far too stimulating for a man in your condition.” He tucked the mag under his elbow. “Here. How about Monster Truck Monthly?”

The thermometer beeped and Wilson checked it. “It’s no higher.” He took the truck magazine from House. “They’re really only interesting when they’re actually running over something.”

House was too involved in his Playboy to answer Wilson’s complaint.

* * * * *

Apparently Wilson hadn’t changed his locks like he frequently threatened to, because House’s extra key still opened the door of Wilson’s apartment. He found Wilson on the couch writing something down on a file, early morning sunshine just starting to come in through the windows. He glanced up at House’s entrance, unsurprised to see him.

“You’re up early,” House said.

“I could say the same.” Wilson glanced at the VCR clock. “I never thought I’d see the day Gregory House got up before ten—and, here, it’s not even eight.”

“Impressive, no?” He dropped the square cardboard carton he’d been carrying on the coffee table with an audible thump. “I even brought bagels. Chopped onion, your favorite.”

“Your favorite, actually.”

“Oh…I get points for trying.”

“Sure you do.” Wilson toyed with the edge of the blanket draped across his knees. “It was a really nice thought. Afraid I’m not that hungry, though.”

“Nauseous?” House noted the wastebasket sitting close to the end of the couch—an emergency vomit receptacle standing by.

“Yeah. Exhausted too, but every time I try to sleep I’m sure I’m going to hurl, and even when I do fall asleep, that’s when the meds wear off.” Wilson let his head loll back against the couch, eyes closing, as even that speech was pushing the bounds of his endurance. Even in the dim light of Wilson’s living room, House could detect the shadows lingering under his eyes. He turned abruptly and made his way into the kitchen, getting out a couple of tumblers and filling them; he returned and handed one to Wilson.

“First drink of the day.” He shook his head in shame. “We’re hard-drinking men.”

“This is ginger ale,” Wilson pointed out.

“Shut up or you’ll ruin our image.” Wilson looked as though he was about to point out that they didn’t have much of an image to ruin, but then he just took an obedient sip and set his glass aside. Motioning for Wilson to move his sock-clad feet, House took a seat, retrieving first the remote and then a bagel. He turned on the TV, ignoring Wilson’s annoyed look, and settled on a favorite channel.

“I cannot believe you still watch—oh hey, Sponge Bob.” Wilson focused. “No, no, no, I’m trying to work.” He held up the file to attest to his efforts.

House considered it a moment before reaching over, plucking it from Wilson’s hands, and tossing the confiscated file across the room. “You’re too sick to work—you’ll just end up puking all over it,” he said reasonably. “And I don’t think a pineapple is a very reasonable housing choice.”

Wilson sighed. “Yes, because that’s the most illogical thing about this show.” They watched the rest of the episode in silence, House finishing his bagel and Wilson nursing his ginger ale wearing an uncertain look. House stood as the credits rolled.

“I should mosey on. Make sure my minions don’t run amok.”

“And if they are,” Wilson said dryly, “how would that be different from usual?”

“That’s a good point. Maybe I should stay here—they can handle it.”

Wilson waved him off. “No, go on. You wouldn’t want them getting delusions of grandeur.”

House nodded. “Do you have your phone?”

Wilson considered. “Uh. It’s in my coat pocket—in the bedroom.” House got it and set it on the coffee table next to Wilson’s still nearly full glass.

“If anything happens, anything at all, don’t hesitate to call Cameron. Okay?”

“Thanks, that’s sweet of you.”

* * * * *

Work was hell. Which had always been House’s opinion, but now he realized that he had been wrong in his previous assessments because the hell that work had been was nothing in comparison to the hell that work was now. As much as he tried to keep his mind on the case as hand, his attention kept wandering. He looked at the patient’s file and saw Wilson’s stats. During the differential, his mind kept tripping over different drugs, treatments, side effects, and possible complications. He came up with elaborate scenarios—best case occasionally, more usually worst case. He’d play them out in his head, moves and moves ahead, like chess, already able to see the way the game would play out.

Cameron caught on to his distraction, giving him sidelong worried looks, chewing on her lower lip. Foreman and Chase either didn’t notice or didn’t care about their boss’s preoccupation, allowing him to retreat to his office and draw the blinds without comment. But Cameron kept popping in with questions about the patient’s diagnosis, treatment, and then, on this latest interruption, about House’s own well-being.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she repeated.

“No, I’m hurting and was really hoping we could talk about the intimate details of my inner pain but didn’t know how to approach you. Thanks so much for taking it upon yourself to interfere.”

She was taken aback by his caustic tone. “It’s just that—”

“If you have something to say about the patient, say it; otherwise, get out.”

She retreated to the conference room, where Foreman and Chase were hanging out, eager to keep a low profile. “He bit my head off,” he heard her announce, clearly working on the principle that since she couldn’t see him, he couldn’t hear her. None of the fellows seemed to appreciate just how well the acoustics amplified their voices in his office. Glass wasn’t exactly soundproof, which was as useful as it was annoying.

“Don’t know why you’re surprised,” Chase answered unsympathetically.

“I was just trying to help,” she protested, aggrieved.

“Your first mistake,” Foreman intoned. “Who knows why he’s in such a crap mood. Maybe it’s his leg, maybe it’s his tortured soul, or maybe he’s just an asshole. Take your pick.”

“If you really want to know what’s up, ask Wilson,” Chase advised. “Where is Wilson anyway?” House rose at this, uninterested in hearing their theories about Wilson’s absence, and stalked out onto the balcony. He retrieved his cell from his pocket and flipped it open. He didn’t have to scroll through his contacts since Wilson’s number was the first. He hit ‘call’ and listened to the dial tone, picking at a crack in the railing absently. After eight and a half rings, it went over to voicemail and House hung up. Forearms braced on the wall, he looked out into the courtyard below. House knew that, statistically, many of the people below had lives that sucked way worse than his. Hell, most of the people in the world were miserable. But right at this moment, he couldn’t help but believe he was the most wretched being ever to live. House jumped, startled by his phone’s own ring.

“Hey,” Wilson said, sounding breathy, as if he’d rushed to get to the phone.

“Hey, yourself,” House answered back. He heard Wilson swallow and take a deep breath. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Wilson said, sounding anything but. “Sorry I didn’t answer earlier; I was a little busy.”

“Antiemetics not working?”

“Not as much as one would hope.” House opened his mouth, but Wilson forged on. “How’s the case?”

“Well, you know. The patient was dead this morning. But he’s better now.”

“That’s good.” Wilson would have used the same tone to respond to an observation about the weather. “Do you need anything else?”

House wracked his brain but came up with nothing, not even a plausible lie. “No,” he answered reluctantly

“Then I’m going to let you go. All right?”

“Yeah. I’ll talk to you later.”

* * * * *

 “What’s going on with Wilson?” Chase’s comment was technically directed at Foreman, but well within House’s hearing. It was as good an opening as any. “I caught him throwing up in the men’s room for the second day in a row.”

“Chemo, actually…” House replied, still looking over the latest patient file.

“Chemo?” Chase barked in surprise. The other two fellows turned to him, Cameron’s eyes even more saucer-like than usual.

“Yeah. It’s short for chemotherapy, along with chemoembolization as well—”

“What kind of cancer?” Cameron interrupted.

“Liver.” House splayed his fingers against the glass tabletop. “But what do our patient’s symptoms tell us? I don’t actually keep you guys around for my health. Start pulling your weight.”

But Cameron had clearly fixated on this. “Oh God, what stage?”

He grimaced. “Threeish. But you have your very own patient to focus on.” He waved the blue patient file in front of her. “Oooo, shiny!”

Cameron laid a gentle hand on his wrist. “House, I’m sorry. I know this must be very hard for you.”

House looked from the slender fingers to her face and back again until she got the picture and let go of him. “Actually, it’s a lot harder on Wilson.” He rolled his eyes. “He’s always bitching and moaning about the chemo.”

“It’s all right to be worried about your friend,” Cameron assured him with that plaintively earnest expression of hers, as if he wanted her assurance.

House gritted his teeth. “Wow, so glad to have you around to tell me that. How very, very useful.” He paused and gave her the darkest look possible. “He’s between wives, if you want to be the last. I know you have a thing for tumors.” It floored him that she still managed to look surprised at his callousness.

“How’s he doing?” This time it was Foreman who interjected, though his expression was mild interest instead of concern.

“DDX, people!” House bellowed, and they all flinched rather satisfyingly. “You can grill Wilson later. On your own time.” They finally let him steer the conversation back to the patient, but Cameron and Chase kept giving him sidelong glances. Foreman looked bored. House threw out a couple of possibilities and dismissed them to run tests.

He ran into Cameron that afternoon, exiting Wilson’s office. He’d sent her to run some blood work, but apparently she’d found some time to stop in and visit as well.

“Cameron!” She jumped as he called her name. He jerked his head, indicating she should follow him. She looked surprised and possibly just the least bit guilty, but followed him quickly back to his office. He shut the door behind them and drew the shades. “What was your business with Wilson? Asking him on a date already?”

“No,” she said, meeting his eyes with practiced resolve. “I was just trying to be a good friend.” Her voice held just a suggestion of her normal recriminatory tones.

“Did he ask you to be his friend?”

“Well, no, but I—”

“You’re not his friend. You don’t have any friends at all. You have charity cases.” He took a step closer, using his full height to loom over her; to her credit, she refused to back up. “And this particular case isn’t yours. So stay away from him.”

Her small hands were fisted and her eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to control every aspect of his life. You don’t get to say whether I talk to him or not.”

House grabbed her elbow tightly, drawing her close and leaning down so their faces were close together. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. He’d probably say he’d love to talk to you. Not because he actually wants to, you understand, but because he’s never been able to turn down an emotional woman. Which is why I’m here. So you don’t talk to him unless he talks to you. Not about the cancer.” She flinched as his grip on her elbow tightened. “No ‘get well soon’ cards, no fruit baskets, no fucking chicken soup. Understand?” She nodded mutely, eyes like saucers. “Good.” He let her go and she rubbed her arm automatically. “Glad we had this talk.” He left her standing there, staring after him, looking utterly gobsmacked.

“Sorry about Cameron,” House announced, when he’d returned to Wilson’s office. “She got off her leash. It won’t happen again.”

Wilson looked up. “Oh, she was fine. She… Wait. What did you say to her?” He gave House a suspicious look. “Tell me you didn’t give her a hard time. She was just trying to be nice, you know.”

“Of course I didn’t harass her. Why would I harass a meddling harridan?”

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose a moment, taking a steadying breath. “I’m going to choose to believe that.”

“It’ll make both our lives easier,” House assured him.

Wilson nodded wearily, unsurprised. Much of their friendship was based on Wilson’s suspended disbelief. “I told Cuddy, you know, formally,” he said after a moment. House took a seat on the edge of Wilson’s desk and picked up a paperweight. “Figured I should before she feels the need to bring it up.”

“And how did that go?” He turned the paperweight so that it caught the light, casting prisms about the room.

Wilson shrugged slightly. “Fine, I guess. She awkwardly tried to empathize, assured me that she would do everything possible to make things easier. Then asked me how much longer I thought I’d be able to keep working. So, really, really great.”

“That’s Cuddy for you. ‘Is your personal problem going to interfere with my hospital?’” House rolled his eyes.

Wilson shrugged slightly. “She didn’t mean it like that. She cares,” was his nearly automatic defense. “She’s just not good at showing it. Like other people I could mention.” Wilson’s look was pointed.

“Hey, now. I care. Who cooked dinner for you?”

“Ordering and cooking are not exactly the same. Especially when you make me pay.”

“I went and got your wallet for you, didn’t I?”

* * * * *

Two weeks later House took the stairs up to Wilson’s apartment as quickly as his leg allowed. Knocking on the door with the handle of his cane, he shouted, “Hey, Wilson. Get up, the movers are here.” He looked out to the street where the large, orange truck was parked, more or less completely blocking traffic. The door opened to reveal a sleepy-looking Wilson, still wearing his old blue bathrobe.

He looked rather nonplussed to see House. “The who are here?” House shouldered past him into his apartment, making room for the burly men who’d followed him up the stairs.

“All right boys, pack it up and move it out. We need to be out of here by five.” The men assembled the cardboard boxes they’d brought with them and began filling them with Wilson’s belongings.

“The hell?” Wilson turned to him. “Care to tell me what’s going on?” He set his hands on his hips, not quite awake, but still prepared to be miffed.

“You’re moving in with me. Duh.” House took a seat on Wilson’s futon, watching as the packers carelessly began wrapping Wilson’s knickknacks and stowing them away. Awards, decorative vases, photographs in heavy silver frames, all the pieces of Wilson’s life disappeared into newspaper and cardboard. “Don’t worry about being careful. Most of this stuff is crap anyway.” The last bit was directed at the packers.

“Moving in with you?” Wilson voice was a hiss of surprise. “Since when? We never discussed, you never asked—”

“Of course I didn’t,” House answered as if Wilson were being dim. “If I asked, you might have said no.”

“I can’t move in with you, House,” Wilson protested, pulling at the fraying collar of his robe. “I’ve got a lease.”

“I already explained things to your landlord.” Explained was something of a euphemism.

“And I know how you like your space,” Wilson continued a bit weakly.

“And yet, I’m prepared to share it with you. Uh, uh, uh,” he forestalled further protest with a waggling finger. “Now, sunshine, go get dressed and I’ll let you take me to breakfast. You guys can handle things here, right?” The workers failed to acknowledge House’s question, which he took as the affirmative. “Great. Hurry, Wilson. I require some coffee.”

Two cups of coffee and a chocolate croissant later, they were back at House’s apartment, wondering where the hell to put Wilson’s stuff. Most of Wilson’s furniture went straight into storage, but there was still his large DVD collection and other personal effects that he swore he couldn’t live without.

“Where the hell am I supposed to sleep, House?” He rubbed his neck, surveying the stacks of boxes now cluttering House’s living room. “I thought you said you’d thought this through!”

“You’re taking my bed.”

“Then where the hell are you going to sleep?”

House shrugged; he’d considered the matter, but hadn’t come to a useful conclusion and just hoped that the correct answer would present itself. “The couch is good.”

“Yeah, right.” Wilson sat himself down on the couch in question. “It’s fine, House. Really, I’ll take the couch. Really. Not like it’s the first time I’ve slept there, so re—”

“Say ‘really’ one more time and I will hurt you. You’re taking the goddamn bed and that’s final.”

Wilson’s mouth snapped shut, and he looked rueful. “You’re actually giving up your bed for me?”

House rolled his eyes at Wilson’s flattered expression. “Cancer patient trumps cripple.”

“I’m going to have to remember that,” Wilson smirked. “But what about your leg?”

“That’s why God created painkillers.”

Wilson looked stricken, and House held up a hand to forestall renewed protest. “It’s not like I’m not already on them. Besides, the bed is closer to the bathroom, and I don’t want to be cleaning up puke if you can’t make it from the couch in time.”

Wilson blinked. “Wow. Your concern is really touching.”

“I have my moments.”

“You certainly do.”

House woke that night in the awkward time that wasn’t quite night but still wasn’t morning. His leg hurt, but it was his back that was really protesting his earlier chivalry. Then he heard the gut-twisting sound of retching which had awoken him. He padded down the hall to the bathroom, blinking in the bright vanity light. Wilson was curled around the toilet, forearms braced on the seat. He wasn’t bringing anything up anymore, just spitting to clear his mouth between spasms. House watched a moment and then sat on the edge of the tub.

“Go back to bed,” Wilson managed with gasping breaths. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah, you look fabulous. I’m so glad heroin-chic is back in.”

“Nothing you can do.”

“Don’t you want me to hold back your hair?”

Wilson tried to retort, but gagged instead. “Good one,” he finally managed. He shivered, the cold tile biting though the thin cotton of his pajamas. House went and got the quilt, draping it over Wilson’s pathetic form. He took an awkward seat on the floor next to Wilson, his leg protesting the position. Wilson sat back, flushing the toilet, and then leaned heavily against the wall, apparently done vomiting, but too weary to return to bed. House commandeered a section of blanket. Wilson yielded it reluctantly, then scooted closer to facilitate sharing. House stationed himself in the corner where tub met wall, with Wilson against his other shoulder. “Really,” Wilson said when his breathing had returned to normal. “Go back to bed. I can handle it.”

“You still nauseous?” House asked.

Wilson paused and then nodded. “Little bit.”

House rested his head on the side of the tub. “I’m good.”

“I’ll just bet hanging out on your bathroom floor in the middle of the night is your idea of a good time.”

House gave him a disdainful look. “Are you kidding? This is what I usually end up doing on the weekends. Although normally it’s me with my head in the toilet. And normally because I’ve just consumed my own weight in single malt, but hey. Close enough.”

“How very rock and roll.”

They waited until Wilson felt that he could go back to sleep. House helped him to his feet and steered him to the bedroom. Wilson was too exhausted and too sick to make much of a protest, instead collapsing into House’s pillows. House sat on the edge of the bed, the idea of making his way back out to the living room a daunting thought. He’d just rest here a moment and then go sleep on the couch. A moment passed, and the thought of getting up got less appealing, not more. Fuck it. House lay back, the pillow unbelievably soft and welcoming.

When he opened his eyes again, it was because the sun was in them and his bladder required urgent attention. He propped himself up an elbow; somehow he’d worked his way under the covers during the night. Wilson was gone, his side—the side Wilson had been sleeping on, House corrected himself—cool to the touch. He swung his legs over the bed, wincing at the morning tension in his leg. Making his way to the bathroom, he rubbed it, trying to work out some of the stiffness, and downed a couple of Vicodin.

Bladder and leg attended to, the stomach was next on the list of insistent body parts, and he went in search of some breakfast.

He found Wilson in the kitchen. “Holy hell,” House swore, observing the disarray of the kitchen. Dirty mixing bowls, chopped vegetation on the cutting board, grocery bags yet to be unpacked. “Hungry, much?”

Wilson, up to his elbows in thick oven mitts, opened the oven and removed first one casserole dish and then another. House caught sight of at least two more before Wilson shut the door with his foot and carefully set down the second casserole. Only then did he turn back to House, mitted hands on his hips. “Just figured I should stockpile now. Freeze these now, then pop them in the oven again later. I probably won’t be up to cooking soon. At least, not as much.” Personally House didn’t think he really looked up to it now.

“It sure is sweet of you to think of me. But there is no way I’m going to eat,” he picked up a recipe card, “chicken cacciatore. More like chicken barf-atore.”

“There’s that rapier wit I love so much,” Wilson grimaced. “I’m glad you don’t like it. Now maybe you won’t eat my food.”

“I might develop a taste for it, though,” House mused, pulling a fork out of the silverware drawer and digging himself a bite out of the center of the dish.

Continue to Part Three

Comments

[ignazwisdom.livejournal.com]

“And since when is your relationship to me ‘sworn blood brother’?” Wilson asked, still reading over his shoulder.

I'm waiting for the crying to start and then there's this line, which made me laugh out loud.