Chapter Text
Robert Chase has seen quite a few things in his life.
An upset Gregory House is not one of them.
Well, he had just spent the morning comforting his boss through an autistic meltdown, but that was still something he hadn’t quite had the time to wrap his head around.
When Doctor Wilson had been stabilized and stitched up, Chase had left the OR to get out of his scrubs and go take look at the man upstairs. Ha. That’s funny. House would find that funny.
Speaking of House, when Chase opened the door to the gallery, he saw the man still sitting on the floor, leaning against the glass window, looking down at where his… Wilson? What can you call their relationship anyways? Well, House was still staring down at where Wilson was being wheeled out of the operating room, eyes vacant.
“House, it’s fine. Wilson’s fine, he’s being brought to the ICU as we speak. Don’t you want to go sit with him when he wakes up?”, Chase crouched down next to the man, whose eyes were still fixed on the now empty space in the OR. Chase wondered if it would be a good idea to make House walk, but seeing how House looked so… unseeing, he decided to just help him up into the wheelchair that was already placed there.
As Chase helped House sit in the wheelchair (Foreman should have been here to film this as blackmail-material, Chase wonders), he heard House muttered something inaudible. Not really wanting to bother with it, he just took the handles of the wheelchair and rolled him out of the gallery.
“I felt him”, House said quietly but clearly after having taken the second turn towards the ICU. Chase froze, just for a second, before turning his gaze towards the older man sitting in front of him.
“What do you mean, House”, Chase asked, not unkindly but firmly. He remembered reading something about spaced-out people needing firm and authoritative voices and decided to give that a try. Anything to stop the great Doctor House looking like a lost puppy. Chase knew that he was lucky that House was in the state he was currently in, because talking to him like that would just not fly in normal situations. Oh, well. When was anything normal with an overly eccentric man like his boss.
“I felt him. When he died. It was awful. It was beautiful”, House whispered. Chase’s eyes widened. Yes, he liked to indulge in his religion, and believed in the afterlife (for comforting reasons, really), but hearing the Gregory House, one of the most atheist people he had ever met, say something like that was a true shock to the heart. He knew that seeing your Wilson go into cardiac arrest during an operation that you believed to be your fault was quite traumatic. He also knew that the brain was a curious little thing capable of shocking even the most rational of people.
“I’m sure Wilson is fine, House. Just go sit with him and wait until he wakes up, alright?”, Chase rolled the wheelchair a good meter away from the bed occupied by the oncologist. Looking down at him, he did note that Wilson looked rather awful. He pulled the breaks on the wheelchair, only to see House undo the breaks and shuffle closer to the bed, eyes not leaving Wilson’s face. House’s hands hovered over Wilson’s body, shaking slightly, as if unsure where to put them. He looked up at Chase, expression close to what Chase had thought it was going to look like: A lost puppy.
“Just… stay here, House”, Chase said, House looking back at his Wilson and finally placing his hand on top of Wilson’s uncovered one.
Chase, knowing he was not needed (nor wanted) anymore, decided to go check up on their own patient, seeing as House was obviously in no state to do so himself. Well, whether he was in this state or not, he probably wouldn’t have bothered either way.
House kept staring at the vacant spot in the OR as he felt himself being lifted and seated into the wheelchair.
James had died.
He would never know.
James had died and House was left all by himself.
House heard Chase say something, but he couldn’t quite discern the words, much less grasp their meaning, so he just sat there.
“I felt him”, he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. House had felt his best friend right before he had died. The Universe can be a cruel little bitch. Just when House had finally, after all these years, come to terms with never being loved in the way he loved James, James had confessed (although it is questionable whether or not that confession could be taken to heart, seeing as James had been fucking dying). And just when House had had a glimmer of hope, the Universe had taken the only person he had ever cared about so deeply (fuck Stacy, no-one could ever live up to James Wilson) away. And as if to add insult to injury, his brain had conjured the touch of the one person he could never have and made him believe that James was there with him, when in reality, James had been dying on the fucking table.
“I felt him”, House repeated, louder. He heard Chase ask what he meant, finally being able to understand that the sounds coming out of Chase’s mouth where words with a meaning.
“I felt him. When he died. It was awful. It was beautiful”, House felt his eyes well up with tears, a mix of anger at being reduced to choppy sentences and sadness filling him. He wanted to do anything and nothing but cry, yet he knew that if he started now, he wouldn’t be able to stop.
House heard the doors to the ICU open with a silent woosh and finally looked up form where his eyes were fixated on his hands, too tired to stim, yet filled with an unnerving energy he wished could leave his body. He saw a hospital bed, and someone laying in it. House wondered why Chase had taken him to a stranger’s bedside, when he realized that the pale face nearly blending in with the white bedsheets was James. He loosened the breaks to the wheelchair, shuffling closer to the bedside, hands hovering over his friend’s seemingly lifeless body. He looked up at Chase, as if seeking confirmation that James was in fact alive. He could, in the back of his mind, hear the faint beeping of the monitors, which should have been confirmation enough, but sometimes even he has moments of weakness. Specifically, when James Wilson was concerned, apparently.
“Just… stay here, House”, Chase said, and House finally put his hand on top of James’ left one, unsure if the touch would be welcome if (when?) he woke up but needing the small comfort.
Chase left the room, the doors once again opening and closing with that familiar woosh sound. It was quite funny how close he apparently still was to overstimulation if he was able to hear all that with his ear defenders on. House became aware of the fact that no, he had not taken them off. Good thing he was well versed in reading lips and mostly relied on doing just that when he was wearing his ear defenders. His left hand lifted to them, wanting to take them off, but deciding against it. The beeping of the monitors hooked to James, while comforting his need to know that James was still breathing, was already grating at a certain part of his brain which decidedly felt not good. Instead, he started playing with the chord attached to the base of the left shell. James had bought them for him, years ago, after finding him in the middle of scratching his arms bloody because his black marker had nearly dried up and was making an awful squeaking noise when House tried writing down the symptoms of the patient of the week. After a small discussion (read: a massive fight which lasted about three days) with James, he had started relying on the ear defenders.
House was suddenly felt a wave of exhaustion washing over him, his eyes drooping and hand falling back in his lap from where it had woven the string between his fingers. As if on autopilot, he nearly folded himself in half and rested his head on the small sliver of mattress left next to James. His right hand was still grasping James’ left one, and he had no intention of letting go.
Honestly, it was getting kind of repetitive. James Wilson was (once again) floating.
At least, that’s what it (once again) felt like. He just hoped that he wouldn’t be falling – never mind, there he went. You’d think that it would get less scary the second time, right? Well, you’re wrong. It does not get less scary. Or maybe James just doesn’t like falling. Who knows?
Well, at least now, he wasn’t standing in an OR staring down at his own battlefield of an abdomen. He’s becoming more and more aware of his body, feeling a deep burn near his hipbone, which would make him wince if he had the energy to do so. He doesn’t. So he doesn’t. Wince, that is. Man, his brain is scrambled.
What he does, however, feel, is a warm, soothing pressure on his left hand, and something equally warm resting against his left leg. He tried to blink his eyes open, slowly, and when he managed that he looked around the room he was laying in. Seemed like a private ICU room. What your status won’t get you in America, right?
His eyes drifted towards the warmth next to him, where he saw House sitting uncomfortably in a wheelchair (wait, what happened to him?) holding his hand and resting his head against his leg. House was wearing the ear defenders he had gotten him a few years ago, left hand holding the chord in a tight grip, as if holding on to a lifeline.
Wilson cleared his throat, and turned the hand House was gripping tightly to intertwine their fingers. He cleared his throat again and made an attempt at speaking.
“H-Hey, House?”, he said croakily, and House’s nose twitched (unfairly cute, by the way), eyebrows furrowing together and an undiscernible noise leaving him.
“House, wake up”, James tried again, voice clearer now. House blinked his eyes open, lifting his head up slowly, and then looking James in the eyes. House’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to say something.
“James, James, James, James, James, James-“, House started rambling in a monotonous voice. James saw the tell-tale signs of a “post-meltdown refractory period” and knew that trying to break House out of his cycle would do more harm than good. He decided to try and talk over him, lifting his hand to rest against House’s cheek.
“Hey, it’s alright. Everything’s alright, honey, just breathe. Can you tell me what happened? Are you hurt? Why are you in a wheelchair, darling?”, James said, trying to match his tone of voice and speech pattern with House’s own, getting words in between the rests of “James” House was still repetitively saying. It worked quite well in the past, and seemed to have some effect on House now, as well. James was quite well-versed (if he may say so himself) in calming House down after a meltdown, and even though he wasn’t there when it happened (and didn’t know why it had happened in the first place), he did still know what to do to help House out of the place he was currently in.
“Honey, I need you to breathe for me, alright? Can you do that?”, James asked House gently once more. House looked at him and nodded, still keeping up his mantra of “James”, but slowing down a bit as he tried to get some deep breaths in between of the word he was currently stuck on.
“You’re doing so good, darling”, James said softly when House managed to stop the bout of palilalia. James moved his hand from House’s cheek to the back of the shoulder, pulling him closer. House immediately buried his face in the crook of James’ neck, burrowing as closely to his friend as he could.
James felt rather than heard his friend mumble something, and made an inquiring noise, urging House to repeat what he had said.
“You called me “honey””, House mumbled, burrowing even closer, which was a feat in itself. James felt himself blush, and raised his hand to House’s head, stroking the thinning hair. He considered just brushing it off as nothing, but meeting Death made you look at certain aspects of your life in a different light. Yes, James could say that it had meant nothing, but then he would lose the House he was currently nearly-cuddling with, and to be honest? That’s not something he wanted.
“Yeah, I did”, James said instead. “How do you feel about that, honey?”
He deliberately used the new pet-name for his friend (let’s face it: more-than-friend if everything worked out fine), holding his breath while he waited for House to reply.
House lifted his head, looking James in the eyes. It was weird, the intensive eye-contact. House generally didn’t really look people in the eye, but more at the mouth to lip-read, or the cheeks. It was nice, but James knew that it probably wasn’t going to last. He didn’t mind. House was House, and House was House with all his eccentricities, and James loved House with all his eccentricities.
“I don’t mind”, House whispered, laying back down. James saw him sitting with his lower half bent uncomfortably in the chair over the bed. He shuffled to the side a bit, hissing at the increasing burning sensation in his abdomen. House looked up again, alarmed, and saw James’ contorted face, reaching over to the IV-machine and upping the morphine. James breathed a sigh of relief when he felt the pain decreasing, smiling slightly.
“Come up here, darling”, James said softly, and helped House arrange his leg in a comfortable position once he was on the bed. House, mindful of his wound, draped his arm over James, and nuzzled his face back in James’ neck.
James felt a wave of tiredness wash over him, closing his eyes.
“You lost the bet, by the way”, he mumbled sleepily.
“What are you talking about, James”, House whispered. Oh, how sweet his name sounded when House said it. Truly wonderful. Maybe the drugs were getting the better of him.
“You said “fuck”, House. Remember? We had a bet about you not saying “fuck” anymore”, James sighed, letting the darkness (not the scary one, the one that’s accompanied with falling asleep) wash over him and hear House huff a silent laugh before finally falling asleep once more, his love safely tucked in his arm.
When Chase went to check up on Wilson (and House, to some degree), he was met with a sight that melted his heart. House was securely curled up against his Wilson’s side, fae tucked against Wilson’s neck. Wilson had his arm draped over House, holding him in a way that screamed “protective”, and Chase couldn’t resist snapping a picture for future use.
Death was sitting in the vacant wheelchair at James Wilson’s bed, looking at the two men sleeping soundly. It was a good thing that he had not deemed it James Wilson’s time yet, Death thought. He had defied the word of Nature, and it had been completely worth it.
Everything had turned out perfectly.