Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The yellow rays of sunshine spill through the blinds, indicating morning has arrived.

Wilson can barely get up — the pounding in his head is too loud to ignore, his vision too blurred. He doesn’t register this as anything unusual.

He hasn’t eaten in three days. He’s successfully reached his desired weight — 61.3 kg.
But what if it was just a bit lower?
What if it dropped below 60?

The thought excites him.
It wouldn’t affect him that much.

Whenever he’s in the bathroom, he takes forever. He stares intensely at his reflection, noticing things that weren’t there before — a sharper jawline slowly forming, his face slimming, his ribs pressing against his skin so visibly now that you can count them.

But it’s not enough.
It’s never enough.
He needs to lose more — and faster.

—

When he arrives at work, he’s greeted by fluorescent lights and the ever-present buzz of the hospital.

His morning coffee is already brewing in the diagnostics department. Luckily, House is nowhere in sight. He doesn’t want House trying to force him to eat something again.

As he approaches his office, his vision starts to blur. His hands tremble. His legs feel like they could give out at any second.

He barely makes it to his chair before his knees buckle completely.

Weird.
This hasn’t happened before, he thinks.

A knock at the door startles him, pulling him out of it.

“Yoohoo,” House announces, walking in like he owns the room.

When Wilson realizes it’s House, he grabs the first file he sees, clearly not in the mood for whatever this is.

“What do you want, House?” Wilson sighs, already seeing that smug grin — the one House wears when he’s up to something.

“We’re getting dinner at that cheap Italian place we used to go to. It reopened. Turns out it only shut down because of a rat infestation.”

There’s hesitation.
Wilson overthinks.
If he goes, it’ll screw up everything he’s been working toward for weeks.

But it’s also clear House won’t take no for an answer.

“I-I’m busy tonight,” Wilson says finally.

House gives him an unconvinced look but doesn’t call him out.
“How about tomorrow?” he suggests casually.

“I have something tomorrow too,” Wilson lies again.

“No, you don’t. You’re a divorced man — your only social life is in this hospital,” House fires back, already fed up.

“I do have something important,” Wilson insists, voice slightly squeaky.

House’s expression softens — almost like he’s worried.
But that doesn’t make sense. House isn’t worried.
And even if he was, there’s nothing to worry about. Wilson’s fine.

“Great. I’ll pick you up at seven,” House exclaims, taking Wilson’s silence as agreement.

A frustrated groan escapes from Wilson’s throat the moment House leaves. He drops his head into his hands.

This is going to be a huge setback.

—

When House arrives later, he practically has to drag Wilson off the couch and make him put on something decent. Wilson finally caves — not by choice.

While Wilson’s getting ready, House digs through the fridge, scanning for a beer — which isn’t hard to find, since the fridge is nearly empty, most of it spoiled or rotting.

“You need to grocery shop more often — your food’s decomposing,” House says when Wilson walks into the room.

“Great. I’ll try to fit that into my calendar,” Wilson mutters.

“Ready to go?” House pipes up.

Wilson just rolls his eyes.

—

As they arrive, the waft of breadsticks and pasta fills the air.
Wilson finds it nauseating — intoxicating in the worst way.

He scans the menu for the smallest meal with the least fat.
This place is crawling with calories.

When the food arrives, Wilson stares at the plate, intimidated.

“Have they always been that big?” he asks, stomach twisting.

“Yeah, why?” House says, already munching on the free breadsticks.

“J-just seems like a lot,” Wilson replies, uneasily.

When was the last time he had a proper meal?

He pokes at his pasta, dissecting the chicken into tiny pieces. He forces himself to take a few small bites — just enough not to raise House’s suspicion.

When the check comes, Wilson pays. Obviously.

He barely listens to whatever House is going on about — his mind is already spiraling, fixated on how much this one meal might make him gain.

—

The first thing he does when he gets home is run directly to the bathroom.
He swings the door open and drops to his knees in front of the toilet.

He rolls his sleeves up just past his elbows.
Without hesitation, he thrusts two fingers down his throat.

A gag. Then he hurls.

He stays there for what feels like hours, dry-heaving long after the food is gone.
When he finally stops, he sits in silence on the cold black checkered tiles.

Eventually, he gets up, washes his face, dries his hands, and steps on the scale.

60.7 kg.

A small, quiet breath of satisfaction leaves his lips.

He quickly logs the number into his notes app.

Progress