Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You know what’s funny about being a doctor? When something bad happens to you, you know exactly how bad it is, what to do and how to act to ensure that you stay alive.

Ironically, in this situation, James Wilson can’t really do anything other than lie flat on his back and bleed out in the middle of the outer office of his best friend. Well, he says best friend, but really, he means “the only one that ever mattered in his life”.
Yeah, go figure that he has a life-altering realization like that in the middle of fucking dying. Go fucking figure.

There’s a constant ringing in his ears, and everything is black around him, which, come to think of it, is just because he has his eyes closed. He feels a hand on his shoulder, squeezing him, and he opens his mouth in a silent scream. Everything feels like it’s on fucking fire, and any other stimuli makes him feel sick, not in a “oof, I’m a bit nauseous”, but in a “if this happens again, I’m going to projectile-vomit onto anyone’s face that is in my line of fire”. The hand leaves his shoulder, and Wilson whines at the loss of contact. Huh, not that bad after all.

Faintly, he hears a low, gruff voice calling his name. He tries to identify who the voice comes from, and the only plausible conclusion would be Doctor Gregory House himself, but that’s not possible, right? Because Wilson has never heard House’s voice like this, laced with concern, near panicking.

“James, open your fucking eyes for me!”

There’s that, too. It’s an unspoken rule in their friendship that neither call each other by their first names. It’s always “Wilson” and “House”, occasionally “Boy Wonder “and “Asshole”, and rarely “Jimmy”. The last time House had called him “Jimmy”, he hadn’t known what to say. He just stood there with his mouth open, gaping like a fish, and then turned on his heel and left. Good times.

“JAMES!”, the voice yells, now seriously panicking. Alright, it might be best for everyone present if he tries to open his eyes. As Wilson does so, he’s attacked by the fluorescent overhead light, and he groans. What’s up with hospital and their cool white lights anyways? Wouldn’t it make sense to look for some more ambient lighting? He closes his eyes again.

“Someone turn off the light, and where’s that fucking gurney? We’re in a hospital, for fucks sake, there’s a man bleeding out in my office, how can it take that long to get a fucking gurney?”

Ha. House lost the bet.

“Yiiuslot…”, Wilson tries to say, but somehow, his mouth isn’t cooperating. He tries to open his eyes again. The face of his best friend (let’s just stick to calling him that, ok) comes into his field of vision, icy blues concerned.

“James, James, everything will be alright, listen to me, ok? I’m going to fix this. I promise, everything will be fine, ok?”, House’s panicked voice reverberates in his skull, and James can hear himself say something, but doesn’t really know what. He sees House’s eyes widen (Oh, YHWH, those eyes), and yeah, everything does feel a bit fuzzy…

House doesn’t think he’s ever felt this way. Actually, House doesn’t think he’s felt this much in a long time, if ever. He knew the moment that guy walked in, that this day had just taken a turn for the worse. At that moment though, he just couldn’t really tell how much worse it was going to get.

You see, Wilson wasn’t even supposed to be in his office. The case they were working on wasn’t even suspected cancer, but that meddling bastard of a friend just “had to sit in” to “overlook” because House “couldn’t afford another malpractice suit this week”. Like, come on. Two in a week isn’t even his personal record. Well, it’s only Wednesday, but still. If Wilson hadn’t thought it necessary, this wouldn’t have happened.

He stares at James, how his eyes cloud over and close, and suddenly the glass door bursts open and he’s met with the concerned eyes of Chase, nurses and gurney in tow. They load James up, and House just lets them, because he knows that this is what they’re supposed to do. He still looks blank face at the bullet wound in the abdomen of his best (more than) friend, and Chase crouches down next to him.

“House, are you alright?”, he hears Chase ask. House doesn’t quite feel like he’s in his body, and he just turns head to Chase, eyes still fixed on the now vacant red spot on the carpet. His leg twinges, and he hisses in a breath. Sitting on the floor isn’t really doing him any good.

“House, look at me.”, Chase says. He finally tears his eyes away from where James had lain and looks into the eyes of his prodigal son. Chase looks at him, and House lets him. He doesn’t have the energy to really do anything but stare.

Chase opens his mouth to say something, and without even meaning to, House breathes in a shuddery breath, once, twice, and suddenly everything is becoming just a bit too much. He had promised, sworn, that no-one would ever see him like this, and he tries to stand up but doesn’t manage more than an awkward shuffle back against the wall.
His eyes find the red spot on the floor again, and he can feel something warm on his cheeks. House raises his right hand, which is covered in blood, and wipes at his face, seeing Chase wince in the corner of his eyes.

Right, Chase is still here. Well, that just won’t do, will it? He had promised, sworn, that no-one would ever see him like this. It’s already bad enough that he himself knows he is defective, he himself has always been defective. So, he does the only things he knows right now.

“Get out.”
He objectively knows that he’s being rude (John would have a field day punishing him for this), his voice filled with venom, but he just needs a minute to himself, he needs to get his shit together, he can get through this without being a burden, without acting like a child, and he just needs Chase to get out, get out, out…

“Get out, get out, get out, out, get out, get out, get out, get out, out, get out, get out, get out, get out, get out, out, get…”

Chase had known the moment he walked back into the room and had seen House on the floor next to an unconscious James Wilson that it was going to be an absolute shit show.

Contrary to popular belief, he wasn’t just all good looks and a nice smile. He did have a brain and had been working for House the longest out of all the fellows. Next to Doctor Wilson, he’d argue he’d be the one who knows House the best. Including all the things House didn’t tell people about himself.

Also, one of the things he had learned from House is that if you really want something, you just must take it yourself. So yeah, he might have looked at House’s files. Sue him, House had probably done the same to everyone in the whole hospital.

Another thing he had learned was that when your boss is on the brink of having a meltdown, you must step up and do his job for him. Not that this necessarily was his job, but still. Play the boss when your boss can’t, you know.

“Get Doctor Wilson to the OR immediately, find Doctor Chatz and get him scrubbed in, I’ll come when I can”, his voice carrying a note of authority.

He then turned back to House, crouching down next to him, and tried to figure out what to do. The small amount of knowledge about autism he had was not going to be sufficient in this case, but it had to do. Getting House’s attention away from the pool of blood in front of him seemed like a good start, though.

“House, are you alright?”, he asked, voice firm but not unkind. House turned to him; eyes still fixed on the red spot on the floor. Well, nearly there. House really seemed out of it, breaths shallow.
“House, look at me”, Chase tried again, debating if he should put his hand on House’s shoulder before remembering that physical contact is a big no-no with House in general, so it probably wouldn’t fly right now, either. House’s eyes snapped to him, and oh boy, did he look out of it. Chase opened his mouth to ask him if he could do something, when suddenly House gasped and shuffled backwards awkwardly, back pressing against the wall. Only in the different lighting could Chase now make out the tears that were silently streaming down House’s cheeks. House lifted his hand to wipe the tears away, not noticing that his fingers were covered in blood and thus painting his face crimson red.

House must have become aware of his presence because next thing Chase knows, House is rhythmically tapping his finger against his forearm, having tucked them against his chest, and has started a mantra of “get out”.

To be completely honest, Chase had thought for a split second about just standing up and leaving House be. When he saw House starting to rock back and forth, hitting his head against the wall with increasing force, he knew that however much of an asshole his boss (and father-figure) could be, Chase could not let him be by himself.

A few years into his residence at PPTH, having just started working under House, Chase had once walked in on him in a very similar situation. Well, bar the blood and injured best friend. They had just worked a difficult case and gotten the solution just too late. For some reason, it had hit House rather hard, he’s still not sure why, seeing as House isn’t dubbed “unfeeling” for no reason. Chase does, however, remember going into the outer office and noticing that the blinds to House’s personal office were all shut. Ever so curious, he decided to peek inside, and found House lying on the floor, eyes unseeing staring at the ceiling, with a blanket on him and ear defenders on his ears. Chase had been able to make out the faint scratch marks on his arms from where his nails had dug in and drawn droplets of blood. He had quickly closed the door again and made himself scarce. He had researched exactly what that episode had been and concluded that House must be on the autism spectrum. For some reason, Chase had wanted to be prepared, what for, he couldn’t really tell, and had figured out what to do if House ever got like that again.

It's safe to say that his knowledge does come handy after all. He saw House beginning to hit his head faster and harder against the wall, rocking frantically and digging his nails in his arms, good leg put up in front of him at an angle. Chase was sure that if House could have, he would have pulled his bad leg towards him. House looked rather a bit like a lost puppy, eyes now constantly streaming tears, and he hadn’t given up his manta of “get out” yet.

During his internship in neurology, he had learned of a phenomenon called “palilalia”, which occurs in people with OCD, autism, or other issues. He had also learned during his research that to break someone out of a cycle, one had to shift their focus to something else.

Chase stood up, and closed all the blinds in the office, leaving it dark, little light coming through the gaps of the curtains. He then went to House’s office and started looking for the ear defenders he had seen all those years ago. When he found them, he saw House’s beloved ball sitting on his desk and decided to bring that, too.

House still hadn’t given up his rocking and nail-scratchign when Chase came back.

“House, I’m going to touch you, ok?”, Chase said gently. House looked up at him, and instead of keeping up his mantra of “get out”, he started shaking his head and saying “no” under his breath, repeatedly. Alright, the pattern had changed. Chase took the ear defenders, trying to get them on the ears of his boss with as little contact as possible, which had proven to be a challenge, seeing as he was still shaking his head. When he finally managed it, though, House stilled, no words leaving his mouth, staring blankly in front of him. At least that was some improvement.

“I’ve got your ball here, too, if you want”, Chase whispered. Objectively, he knew that House probably couldn’t hear him, but he also knew that on the off chance that he could, it was important to say exactly what was happening and what Chase was going to do. He handed the grey-and-red ball to House, who held it in his left, unbloodied hand. House then looked at his right hand, and as if remembering what had happened, gasped again.

“Shit”, Chase said. He should have cleaned that hand. He got up and went to the small kitchen in the conference room, wetting a towel, when he heard something akin to a sob from behind him. Chase turned around, and the sight that met him was heartbreaking.

House, still on the floor, had dropped his ball, and curled up as tightly as he could, lying on his side, cradling his bloodied hand to his chest, now openly sobbing. Chase approached him with the wet towel, House unaware of him.

“Come here”, Chase tried to pry House’s hand away from him. House started sobbing harder, clamping his hand harder to his chest. Chase managed to pry the fingers away from Houses shirt, and started gently wiping off the blood, a still sobbing House not looking at him.

“Let’s get you up, alright?”, Chase said after having cleaned the hand, and helped House sit up. By then, the rhythmic, soothing motions of the towel had calmed House down marginally. He was still out of it, seemingly dissociated.

Chase thought about what to do next, not sure how to proceed. House was obviously still upset, and seemed like he was about to keel over from exhaustion any second now. He also knew that the couch in House’s office was not ideal for a post-meltdown nap, House had complained about his neck a few times after having spent the night sleeping there.

Thinking that the doctor’s lounge also wasn’t really a safe place for House to be, he did the only thing he thought was prudent.

“Come on House, let’s get you up on your feet, we’re going somewhere, alright?”, Chase said, letting House lean on him, practically carrying him to Wilson’s office. Once they were there, he gently dropped House on the couch, and arranged him to lie down comfortably. House seemed to become aware of his surroundings again, and started sobbing once more, saying “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry”. Chase wasn’t exactly sure what that was about, but he knew that he had to go find something to calm him down. Remembering the blanket, he had seen House lie under, he went back to his boss’s private office, searching for it.

After about five minutes of relentlessly turning the place upside down, he couldn’t find it, which makes a lot of sense if you think about what a private man Gregory House is.

Chase went back to Wilson’s office, empty handed, to find House sitting up and rocking back and forth again, hands on his ear defenders.

“I feel like I’m going to explode, like my body is going to jump out of my skin and I hate it, I hate it, I ha-hate it, I ha-”, House said quietly, and Chase went to sit next to him, unsure what to do.

“House, I’m going to touch you know, alright?”, Chase said softly, and wrapped his arms tightly around House’s shoulders. House immediately went boneless against Chase, stopping his chanting of “I hate it”, and breathing deeply. Chase had expected a lot of things to happen, being yelled at (again), being punched (again), but not this. This was unexpected, to say the least.

“It smells like him”, House muttered. Chase looked around, seeing Wilson’s office, and couldn’t think of a good reply.

“I love him, you know. I love him so much. And it’s my fault that he’s hurt. I promised to never hurt him. I promised nothing would ever happen to him, and yet I got him hurt. It’s my fault. I love him so much. What if he never knows? What if he dies? I’m lost without him, I don’t know what to do-“, House rambled on, seemingly unaware of who he was talking to, despite knowing that Chase was next to him.

Chase didn’t really know what to say. Everyone was blatantly aware of the weird relationship House and Wilson had with each other, but no-one was quite sure of its nature. He decided against commenting, instead pushing House’s pliant and exhausted body to lie down.

“Stay here, House. Get some rest. I’ll come get you when I know more, alright?”, Chase said.

“No, I’m coming with, I need to see him, please-“, House started getting up again, but Chase just pushed him down by the shoulder again, looked at him, and left Wilson’s office.

Chapter Text

Hey honey, I love you.

House couldn’t have slept more than an hour, judging by how the light slipped through the cracks of the blinds. His head was pounding, and there was this weird pressure around his ears. His throat felt dry, and his face felt crusty. He lifted his hands to his face, distantly noting the absence of something, though he wasn’t quite sure what it was. House felt the evidence of him crying and noted that he was wearing his ear defenders.

House sat himself up and looked around. Where was his cane? How had he gotten into Wilson’s office without it?

Oh. Wait.

James.

House stood up, leg twinging in protest, and hobbled over to the desk as fast as he could. Chase was nowhere in sight, and he could vaguely remember him in the fever-dream that was the past morning. He grabbed a collapsible cane that James, the selfless bastard, had put there “in case of emergencies”. Thank Universe he had, because otherwise this would have been a painful trip down to the OR. House would have managed, but still. James had told him that it was alright to accept help sometimes, and House objectively knew he needed it.

He rushed towards the elevators, and pressed the button to the second floor, hoping to find someone, anyone, who knew where he could find James. Wilson. Whatever.

When had Wilson become James anyway? They had never called each other anything other than “House” and Wilson. Well, apart from some rather crude insults and a “Jimmy” that had slipped out of House one night when he was drunk (he remembers the look on Wilson’s face, just not what it meant).

He arrived at his destination, and was immediately met with an onslaught of- hang on, no. The usual bustling of the OR-floor was dampened, as if something was covering him. Damn. He had forgotten to take off his ear defenders. Oh, well. Everyone thought he was a freak anyways. He saw Chase about to go scrub in and yelled out his name. Chase turned around, briskly walking towards House.

“Where’s James, how’s he doing, will he be alright? What’s going-“, ah, the telltale signs of his unmasked nervous rambling. House wished he could stop doing it, but he just did not have the energy to care. Chase had probably seen him do a lot worse in the past morning.

“House, just calm down and come with me”, Chase said, placing his hand on House’s elbow and guiding him towards the operating gallery overlooking the room James, no Wilson, was being operated on.

“House, for both our sakes, just stay here and don’t interfere. I’m going down there to overlook everything, alright?”, Chase gently pushed House into the wheelchair that was conveniently placed into the gallery. House sat down, pulling the chair closer to the glass window so he could see what the people were doing down there.

“And House”, he heard Chase say and looked up at him. “Everything looks great, right now. If he continues to hold up like this, he’ll make it.”

To be honest, House wasn’t so sure about that.

Chase was about to scrub in when he heard his name being called out. Right, House. He started his rambling again, and Chase just could not handle this right now.

“House, just calm down and come with me”, Chase said, grabbing House’s elbow and guiding him to the wheelchair he had previously put in the gallery, knowing that as soon House woke up, he’d want to see his friend.

Well, Chase says friend, but it’s obvious there’s something more, there.

He went down the stairs and actually got to scrubbing in this time, entering the OR and overviewing the operation.

“Single gunshot wound to the RLQ of the abdomen, piercing through the appendix. We’re just about up”, the nurse said.

Chase stepped closer to the table, surveying the stitchwork, when suddenly he heard alarms going off.

“Shit, we’ve got a bleed, BP is dropping, heartrate going up, he’s going into V-TACH, I need some help here!”

Chase suddenly heard a thump, looking up at the gallery and seeing House slumped against the glass window.

James Wilson was floating.

At least, that’s what he thinks he was. It certainly felt like floating. Or flying. Or maybe falling- oh shit, he was falling, oh fuck, oh fuck-

He was standing in an OR, wearing a white hospital gown. He saw Chase standing in front of the patient, listening to the nurse calling out the stats, single gunshot wound to the RLQ of the abdomen, etc. Chase looked pensive, but not unhappy. Probably the attending doing a good job, then.

Suddenly he felt a stabbing in very own RLQ of his abdomen. He looked down seeing the white gown beginning to be tinted with crimson red blood. Another stab. He faintly heard the attending yelling out something about a bleed, his heart was pounding in his head, and he felt a very specific darkness creeping up on him. He turned around, but it had just escaped him, and he heard a thump. James looked up at the gallery and saw House slumped against the window, seemingly hyperventilating, and repetitively saying “no”. Ah, he was not doing well, then.

 “No, please, no, I still have to tell him, please, no, no, no-“, Wilson heard House mutter under his breath, progressively getting louder.

“House, I’m right here, what’s wrong?”, James asked, walking- no, floating towards House through the window and crouching down next to him. His voice sounded weird, and how exactly had he gotten through that glass window?

James put his hand on House’s shoulder, at least he tried to, his hand just seemed to disappear into the flesh of his best friend’s (still sticking to that, regardless of certain revelations) deltoid. House looked up, at him. How’s that possible?

He was pulled back, back towards the OR table, back into the patient- oh, wait, he’s the patient. Right. Well, that certainly must be a good sign, right? Must mean they’re able to fix him.

He saw the darkness standing next to Chase, who was pushing multiple balls of cotton into the open wound in his stomach. Thank YHWH for morphine because that would have hurt like a bitch. The darkness creeped closer to his face, as if looking at him. Eyes appeared, and they looked at him for a second, before disappearing again. The darkness pulled back and left the room.

James couldn’t really do anything, so he opted for passing out again. He gave one last look to House, who was still on the floor in the gallery, looking down at him, teary eyed. What the Hell was that about?

House was watching down over James when suddenly every single machine started beeping. He saw the heartrate monitor going up, the attending calling out his stats. This was not good, not good at all.

“No, no, no, no, no-“, he wanted to get closer to James, pulling himself out of the wheelchair, legs giving out underneath him, causing him to collapse against the window with a deep *thump*.

  
“No, please, no, I still have to tell him, please, no, no, no-“, House muttered under his breath. He suddenly felt something cold touching his shoulder and looked at the blank wall next to him. That was weird.

He kept staring at the wall, feeling something, something that resembled being looked at by concerned chocolate browns, but that couldn’t be, right? When he looked back down, he saw James being wheeled out.

Oh no.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

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.