Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As an adult, the idea of a pre-destined soulmate always struck Wilson to be about as realistic as astrology or palm reading. The science was pretty clear that the process of scar transfer matching was just a vestigial evolutionary artifact, stemming from the prehistoric time period when there were only a few hundred homo sapiens on the planet amongst other human species. Scar matching allowed homo sapiens to find a partner within the species with the best potential to produce the healthiest, most viable offspring in a time with high infant mortality and low life-expectancy. It marked whose genetics were most compatible, essentially.

While there did seem to be evidence to suggest that scar transfer also indicated a level of emotional compatibility between matched individuals, this too made sense within that framework- emotionally compatible pairs stood a better chance of staying together for longer, thus providing the longest possible window for reproduction. Although the theory didn’t account for the uncommon but documented occurrences of same-sex matches, the scientific community at large concurred that these constituted more of an exception to the rule, not a negation of it.

The idea of soulmates was exclusively a cultural phenomenon, no more concrete or based in reality than any religion. And besides, plenty of people had perfectly good, fulfilling relationships with partners who weren’t their so-called soulmate anyway, even though Wilson’s own non-matched relationships never really seemed to work out. In this day and age, when reproduction was no longer an absolute necessity for each person in order to perpetuate the species, some people were born without the gene combinations that caused scar transfer to begin with. It was theorized, though difficult to prove, that some people’s scars transferred to another person while not receiving any scars in return. After Wilson’s first marriage ended in disaster, he started to assume that he was in this boat. He’d received his fair share of someone else’s injuries, but he told himself that his own scars were probably not transferring, so he stopped bothering to try and figure out who his potential match was. Although this hypothesis veered a bit too far into speculation for Wilson’s taste, some people asserted that if your scar match died before you met, you may still receive the scars they would have gotten throughout their lifetime had they lived. Proponents of this idea usually bought into the soulmates myth too, and it was effectively impossible to prove anyway.

Some also believed in the concept of partial matches. People who you shared some scars with, but not all. It was more than likely coincidence, scars from a scraped knee or appendectomy, for example, were common. This was also difficult to prove, but gave solace to those who couldn’t find a full match. Wilson had foolishly convinced himself that his wives had been partial matches, of course, but again, the concept had no more substance behind it than the other mythology surrounding scar transfer matching. He was still hanging on to the idea with Bonnie, though, when House was admitted to the ER.

Wilson was usually quite good at backing up House’s absurd claims when he believed in them. And being well liked, even if relatively new to the staff, their colleagues typically begrudgingly went along with him when he did. But not this time. House knew there was something wrong with his leg. Stacy believed him, she said she’d never heard him scream like that before. And Wilson didn’t think that House would ever seek drugs in a way that could have permanent consequences. But his colleagues thought he was too biased by their friendship, and by the time House had come to the conclusion that he’d had an infarction, he was beginning to wonder if it wasn’t true.

The surgery House had declined was scheduled late at night. The surgeon was concerned that if they waited any longer, muscle removal wouldn’t even restore partial use of his leg and they’d have to amputate anyway. Wilson was too anxious to go home. He told Bonnie he had a patient with an urgent issue to attend to and she didn’t question him, but he knew she didn’t believe him. Bonnie was sympathetic, but she hated House, and she would have tried to convince him to come home. He wanted to be there in case anything went wrong, although he knew there wasn’t really anything he could do about it. He tried to get some work done, but he’d gotten so little sleep in the past several days that it was practically useless. His eyes closed in spite of himself, and before he knew it, he was asleep at his desk, forehead on the leather desk pad.

Wilson woke up screaming. It was the most excruciating pain he’d ever felt. He bit down hard on his sleeve and clutched at the source of the pain with his other hand. His thigh. He could feel the flesh warping and twisting and bunching horrifically under the fabric of his slacks and it was all he could do to keep himself from falling out of his chair. His stomach contracted and he snatched up the waste paper basket by his desk, vomiting into it. He gasped desperately to catch his breath but the pain was still coming. He fell to his knees despite his best efforts, curling into himself under his desk, screaming and groaning through gritted teeth. He hit his head on the desk several times as he twisted back and forth, trying to find a position to relieve the agony, but he barely even noticed. Acidic bile rose in his throat, and he swallowed it back with force. He heard the office door slam open, but his vision was hazy.

“Wilson?” It was Cuddy.

All he could choke out was a hoarse, “oh god…”

She rushed over to the desk and dropped to her knees. She pried Wilson’s hand away from his leg and probed the area through the fabric with quick, lithe fingers. Her face changed into a strange expression that Wilson couldn’t place.

“That feels like… Wilson, I need to see it.” If he wasn’t blinded by agony, he might have been embarrassed, but at that moment he could barely think at all. With now clumsy, trembling hands, he undid his belt, unzipped his fly, and dragged down his slacks. Cuddy rolled up the loose fabric of his boxers. There. At the top of his thigh. The scar was puckered and oblong, furiously red but fully healed. The hallmark of a fresh transfer scar. Wilson was breathing heavily but no longer writhing, the pain starting to subside. Cuddy watched his face as he slowly regained enough focus to look down and see the cause of all this.

“That’s…” he trailed off, struggling to process what he was seeing.

“They were closing him up in the OR. I came to tell you they were done.” Wilson’s eyes met Cuddy’s. She gave him a small, almost pitying smile.

“It- he- no. It can’t be.”

“It’s not impossible that someone, somewhere might also be having the exact same procedure at the exact same time. But the odds of that aren’t high.”

“About as high as the odds of finding your scar match working in the same hospital as you on a planet with six billion people.”

“I suppose. But it does happen.” Cuddy stood up and helped Wilson to his feet. “He’s probably in recovery now. We should go see him.”

“Please don’t say anything. To anyone.” He watched her imploringly.

“It’s not my business to tell.”

Chapter Text

“What the hell is that?” Bonnie’s sultry murmur snapped back into her normal speaking voice. Wilson went home as soon as he ascertained that House was doing fine- he didn’t want to be around for the inevitable smack-down between him and Stacy. When he got home, Bonnie immediately pulled him into the bedroom. On her knees before his half-naked form, she stared open mouthed at the new scar on his leg.

“It’s uh… a transfer scar. It-it’s not mine.” Her face wrinkled for a moment in disgust, but she quickly smoothed it back out.

“Wasn’t House having some kind of thing with his leg?”

“What are you trying to say? This has nothing to do with him.” She stood up quickly.

“Uh-huh.” She walked away, leaving him alone in the bedroom. Bonnie aways bristled whenever someone made a gay joke about him and House, and Wilson could tell this was confirming some deep seated fear of hers. He sighed and put his pants back on. Here we go again.

Wilson slept fitfully on the couch for the remainder of the night. Bonnie hadn’t explicitly kicked him out of the bed, but he knew she didn’t want him there, and some strange little part of him didn’t want to be there either. On the drive in to work in the morning, thoughts circled like vultures in his head. Was it really House? He couldn’t see how that would work. He was certain House wasn’t even interested in men. Wilson had experimented in the past, but failing to find any lasting relationships, he ascribed it to the whims of youth and moved on. Regardless of whether or not any of that past behavior was actually significant, Wilson wasn’t even attracted to House. Or… at least he thought he wasn’t, anyway. He realized then that he’d never actually considered it before. He’d only ever seen House as his friend, but now that another option had been presented to him… it felt like his perception had been permanently altered. But it would never, could never work, he reminded himself as he pulled into his parking spot. Maybe it was House who never received any scars in return, making Wilson effectively a dead end.

He’d gone in early so he could visit House before his first appointment. When he got to House’s room, he found Stacy sitting out in the hallway, reading some law journal.

“Hey,” he said, “how’d it go when he woke up?” She gave a single, bitter laugh.

“I figured it was best for everyone if I just stayed out here for now.” He nodded sympathetically and walked into the room. Despite the beautiful, brilliant morning outside, it was dark inside, shades drawn tight. All of the lights were out, except for a single pallid lamp aimed over his friend’s face, making him look even worse than he would have anyway. His skin was gray and washed out, and the amount of scruff he’d developed made him look positively hermit-like. The light from the lamp caught on his angular cheeks, making the hollows under his eyes seem even deeper and flattening those chilly flashes of blue that were now trained severely on Wilson.

“How are you feeling?” Wilson asked.

“You knew.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes. I did. I know it wasn’t what you wanted, but Stacy was your medical proxy. I couldn’t do anything about it.”

“So you just stood around with your thumb up your ass while my girlfriend had me mutilated, all in the name of medical ethics?”

“Come on, House. She was trying to do what she thought was best for you.”

“I told her what was best for me! She didn’t care! She thought she knew better than the doctor whose body she was destroying!”

“You could’ve been wrong.”

“Well now we’ll never know! I could have been back to normal!”

“You need to deal with the now, not with what could have been.”

“If all you’re going to do is spout that new age crap at me, you can just get out of here.”

“You can’t possibly blame me for this. I know you can get away with flouting all the rules and regulations you want, but I can’t.”

“I may be pissed at you for twiddling your fingers all night instead of telling everyone involved in this how stupid they are, but I don’t blame you. All the blame belongs to the bitch in the hallway.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the inner window.

“She loves you, House.”

“A kiss and a bandaid on my boo-boo aren’t going to regenerate my fucking muscle!” Wilson sighed and shuffled closer to House’s bedside.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. I know. Everyone’s so damn sorry. But sorry won’t fix me.” Wilson shook his head sadly and walked towards the door.

“I’ll stop by again before I leave.” House didn’t look at him.

“Good.”

***

Wilson tried to read the newspaper over lunch, but he found that he was just staring at the words, absorbing nothing. All he could see was the image of House in his mind. The furious blue fire flickering in his eyes. The way his short, graying hair fell on his pale forehead. The twisting sneer on his lips. Even in his current state, House was still incredibly striking. Someone slid into the booth across from him, and he lowered the paper. Cuddy was smiling benignly back at him.

“Oh. Hi.” Why was she here?

“You’ll have to set up a meeting with HR.”

“What? Why?”

“Well, you and House are colleagues, and HR likes to discuss the implications of workplace relationships with potential partners.” He blinked at her.

“No. It’s not happening. It could never work.” It was Cuddy’s turn to be surprised.

“How can you just turn this down? People spend their whole lives looking for what you’ve just found!”

“Maybe I’m fine the way things are. Drop it. Please.” She scrutinized him with a concerned frown.

“Alright. Let me know if you change your mind. I’ll help you schedule something with HR.” She got up and walked away. Wilson watched her go and thought about what he’d just said. Something in his chest screamed with inexplicable, irrational desperation, twisting his stomach into a sharp, squeezing knot.

Chapter Text

Dread weighed in the pit of Wilson’s stomach for the rest of the day. He promised he’d visit House on his way out, and now he desperately wanted to avoid going. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see the other man so weak- although he certainly didn’t enjoy it- that he could handle. It was something else, something that he recognized, but couldn’t bring himself to name. He actually wanted to see House too badly because of it, and it unnerved him. He did rounds. He met with patients. He called in prescriptions. He did paperwork. Throughout it all, House loomed in the back of his mind. He worked late, telling his wife and himself that he was much too busy to leave on time.

His pager beeped frantically at his hip and he looked down immediately. Urgent page from House’s room. He leapt to his feet, heart practically beating out of his chest. He couldn’t guess what might be wrong as he rushed to the elevator, but he prepared for the worst. He burst into the room, ready for a code, but House was just lying in bed, serenely watching General Hospital on the small hospital room TV. House nodded at him in greeting. “I got an urgent page,” Wilson said, breathless.

“I was bored.” He held up a pager that wasn’t his. “Swiped this off an intern.” Wilson felt both a twinge of annoyance and warm fondness, but covered it all with an eye roll.

“House, I was in the middle of something.”

“Those charts aren’t going to sprout legs and run away. If they did, Cuddy couldn’t complain about the piles in my office. Sit down.” He pulled up a chair, pretending to be begrudging. “I asked them to bring an extra Jell-O cup with my dinner. It’s lime day. Your favorite.” Wilson hoped the smile on his face looked sufficiently sarcastic.

“You really know how to treat a guy.” House gave him an exaggerated wink and turned his attention back to the TV. Wilson stared at the screen the same way he only looked at the newspaper earlier. He felt too hyperaware of House’s presence next to him to pay attention. He wanted to kick himself, embarrassed by this weird schoolboy crush he was developing, all because of a stupid scar. Surreptitiously, he found himself looking at House’s hands and forearms. Wilson knew he didn’t have any scars there himself, but if he could find one on House, maybe he could put this whole thing behind him. He couldn’t see anything, and he didn’t want to chance going in for a closer look. It didn’t prove anything, he told himself, trying not to feel the mix of disappointment and… something else, something fluttering in his stomach. He attempted to focus on the TV, but he was incredibly behind on the plot, so nothing that was going on made any sense.

His eyes glazed over, and just as he was starting to nod, a nurse came in with dinner. “What’ll it be tonight, Nurse 6? Slop or slop?” The woman eyed House with irritation as she set the tray down on the small table over the bed. Wilson could practically hear the ‘I don’t get paid enough for this’ she was going to mutter after leaving the room. She checked House’s vitals and was out of there as fast as possible.

“You number your nurses?”

“Less confusing than calling them all Hot Lips.”

“This isn’t the Korean War, Hawkeye. You know they write their names on the whiteboard every time the shift changes.” House feigned surprise.

“Oh, so that’s what those squiggly shapes are!” House pushed the extra cup of Jell-O towards Wilson and he took it, more than a little surprised anyone was willing to do something out of the ordinary for House considering the way he treated them. Probably just to keep him quiet.

Wilson waited for a commercial break. House wouldn’t want to talk about this anyway, and he knew better than to bring up something distracting while he was engrossed in his show. “What are you going to do about Stacy?”

“I’m caught between two options,” House replied with his mouth full, “Either string her up by her toes until she promises to buy me lunch for the rest of our lives, or chop her up into little tiny pieces and throw them in the dumpster behind the Denny’s.” He glanced at Wilson, looking for a reaction. “And I’m leaning towards the second one.” Wilson kept his expression neutral.

“This is serious. The woman lives with you and clearly wants to take care of you. Wants to help you get through this.”

“Maybe I’ll keep her around for a while. I could use a live in nurse. At least until she decides it’s too much trouble and sedates me so they can cut my leg off entirely.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a little hard on her? You should know as well as anyone that people don’t always do what we want them to in life or death situations.”

“Her choice implanted her in my life forever, against my will! Forgive me if I don’t want to have to spend the rest of my life living with the reason I’m crippled and the consequences of her actions at the same time!”

“I just think you shouldn’t make any rash decisions.”

“What, do you think I’ll change my mind in two weeks when the full extent of what I’ve lost becomes apparent?” Wilson sighed, rubbing the back of his neck and searching for something to say. He made a good point, and House was the most stubborn man he’d ever met anyway.

“Getting that transfer scar must have been pretty painful for her.” Wilson blurted before he could stop himself. He tried to look nonchalant. House groaned.

“God, really? I thought you might actually be the one other person who didn’t give a shit about all that.” They’d never talked about it before, he realized. House never brought it up, and Wilson always assumed he’d be brutally lambasted if he ever expressed his unfounded belief in partial matches, so he never said anything. He’d always just implicitly assumed that House and Stacy were matched. It was a stereotype that matched couples were perfect for each other in every way, and he’d never seen a more perfect couple than House and Stacy.

“Aren’t you two…?”

“Why do you care?” Wilson shrugged.

“I don’t know. Just making conversation.” House looked at him suspiciously.

“You never just make conversation.”

“I guess I just… wondered how you could throw that away so fast. And I figured you think the whole ‘match as a basis for a relationship’ thing is stupid, so I wasn’t going to mention it.” House continued to scrutinize him.

“Yeah.” The commercial break ended and House turned his attention back to the TV. Wilson swallowed hard. He might as well have gone and outright told House. Even if he hadn’t figured it out just from that conversation, he was suspicious now, so there was no doubt he’d start digging the second he was back on his feet, if not sooner. Wilson tossed the empty Jell-O cup in the trash and stood up.

“I’d better get going. Bonnie’s already pissed at me for spending so much time here this week.” House didn’t look away from the TV.

“Send her my disregards.”

“I’m sure she doesn’t even need to hear me say it.” House smirked. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bring breakfast. If I have to eat another forkful of rubberized scrambled eggs, I might actually commit a homicide.” Wilson shook his head genially and left. Maybe he’d stop at that little cafe on the corner on his way in and grab some breakfast sandwiches.

When he went back to his office to collect his things, the voicemail indicator was blinking on his desk phone. It was from Bonnie. She called to tell him that she was getting drinks with her friends, but she might be back before he even got home. He frowned and got ready to leave. He already knew this meant the beginning of the end.

At home, Wilson threw some leftovers in the microwave and cracked open a beer. This part of the end of a relationship was always the worst- when they were both still pretending everything was fine. House was going to be such a jackass about how Wilson’s second marriage was in the toilet too. As he sat down to eat alone, he wondered if it would really be so bad if House found out.

If he did, Wilson could easily see House flat out refusing to have anything to do with him anymore out of principle. Just to prove that the whole concept was stupid and meaningless, just animal instinct and biological imperative. If telling House could mean losing him altogether, it just reinforced Wilson’s decision to keep it to himself. Bonnie suspected, but she’d never willingly talk to House unless there was no other choice, so even if they split she probably wouldn’t spill. Cuddy said she wouldn’t tell, but the three of them had manipulated secrets out of each other before. It was possible that even if Cuddy didn’t tell House directly, something about her demeanor would tip him off anyway. Wilson really wished she’d just left well enough alone instead of coming to check on him. He hated trying to keep secrets from House. He might be able to get away with something small and temporary from time to time, but this was, by definition, no small thing.

Chapter Text

Maybe House was, as everyone feared, rubbing off on Wilson. Because he had to know the truth. Even if the truth ruined his life, he had to find out. And so, he developed a plan.

Sitting in front of the television, watching a boxing match he didn’t particularly care about, Wilson considered how he could put a small scar on himself that he could see on House, but House couldn’t see on him. That is, if they were matches at all. At first pass, the idea seemed nearly impossible. It wasn’t as if House was running around in swim trunks while Wilson was just wearing his regular clothes… He had to break his train of thought and scrunch up his face to put that image out of his mind. The clarity of the picture and how… appealing it was disturbed him. He shook his head hard and took a long drink of his beer. This was his second of the night and it was already almost empty. Bonnie was still out.

All he could really see of House’s body in the hospital bed were places that were also visible on himself: face, neck, arms, hands. He could roll down his sleeves, but it was too warm outside- House would notice. Wearing a lab coat would also tip him off- Wilson usually visited when he wasn’t actively working. And of course, a bandaid on the same place as a new transfer scar would be an instant giveaway. Really any change of behavior while House was already suspicious would lead to disaster. He could intentionally cut himself shaving. But that would have to be a pretty bad cut to scar enough to see through House’s overgrown stubble, and he didn’t want that on his own face.

He finished his beer and turned off the television. He didn’t have to find out immediately. This wasn’t going anywhere, unfortunately. Maybe with some more time he’d come up with a better idea, or figure it out for sure some other way. He got up and tossed the bottle in the trash. Looking around the kitchen, he wondered if cleaning up a little bit might help put him back in Bonnie’s good graces. He grabbed a broom out of the closet and swept up, then took out the trash. On his way back in, he straightened the shoes on the rack by the door and replaced the kitchen garbage bag. He approached the sink to wash the handful of dishes there, took off his watch, then stopped. He stared at the timepiece in his hand. It was expensive- a wedding gift from his in-laws. They’d given Bonnie the slender, feminine version of the same watch to match. He smiled humorlessly at the irony.

Wilson and House usually both wore watches at work, but while in the hospital as a patient, House’s sat abandoned with his street clothes in a drawer.

The wrist was a risky place. Not only did it have potential for actual harm if done wrong, it was also highly visible, so if it was too straight or neat, it would raise questions. The cut had to be deep enough to leave some kind of lasting, visible mark, all while being large enough for Wilson to see without getting too close, but small enough to conceal under his watch.

He started doing the dishes. If he was going to do this, he didn’t want to stick his hand into dirty water with a fresh wound. It didn’t take him long, and while the dishes were drying, he cleaned the sink and wiped down the countertop. How could he cut himself in a controlled, but not too controlled way? What a strange thing to be made more complicated by being a doctor. Opening a cabinet to put away the now dry dishes, Wilson’s eyes fell on the pint glass House had brought him back from some vacation he’d taken, not long after Wilson and Bonnie’s wedding. It had a very nearly naked hula girl printed on it, and the only reason House bought it was because he knew it would piss off Bonnie, which it did. He picked it up and examined it, shifting its weight in his hands. This would probably be the only piece of glassware in the house that Bonnie wouldn’t be upset about if he broke. If he was being honest, Wilson also found it tacky, but he’d grown attached to it. He only ever used it when House came over. He sighed. He’d just say Bonnie knocked it off the counter. House would probably hate her even more for that, but it was merely a drop in the bucket.

Stuffing both his hands into oven mitts, he gripped the base of the glass and lifted it over his head. He squinted his eyes shut and swung down, smashing the glass over the edge of the countertop. Minuscule, glittering specks of crystalline shrapnel went flying and larger shards clattered noisily against the tile floor and granite countertop. A few beats passed after everything had settled, and Wilson slowly opened his eyes, as if something could blow up in his face at any moment. Most of the broken pieces were too small for his purposes, but the jagged edges on the base of the pint glass that was still in his hands would work swimmingly. He stepped around the glass on the kitchen floor cautiously and filled a pot of water to boil. Waiting for the water, he swept up as much of the glass as he possibly could. It was absolutely everywhere. He’d have to let Bonnie know to be careful. When the water reached a rolling boil, he lowered in the broken remainder of the pint glass. He felt vaguely like some Civil War era doctor sterilizing tools for an amputation. Meanwhile, he assembled supplies, leaving the glass to boil for ten minutes, then removing it from the water with a pair of tongs. He let it cool on a clean plate, eyeing it for the sharpest cutting edge.

Everything was ready. Wilson washed his hands thoroughly as if he was scrubbing up and put on surgical gloves, one rolled back to expose the site. He wiped down the back of his wrist with an alcohol pad and picked up the glass. Now that he was staring his plan in the face, his resolve was starting to waver. He wasn’t given pause by what he might learn by doing this, or really any potential consequences at all, it was the base aversion to hurting oneself that made him hesitate. House probably would have called him a coward right about now. And maybe he was. Maybe this whole thing was cowardly. But he had to know.

He gritted his teeth and pressed the sharp, curved blade of shattered glass into his skin, right where the face of his watch would sit. A single rivulet of blood sprang from where the tip of the glass first pierced flesh and rolled down the side of his wrist. Using the contour of the shard itself, he carved a jagged, rounded line into himself. Trying to further obfuscate the source of the injury to any future onlookers, he jabbed the tip of the glass down right by the start of the cut. The resulting wound looked like a craggy, curved exclamation point. Wilson quickly covered the laceration with a piece of gauze and a strip of medical tape. He’d switch to a bandaid in the morning. As he cleaned up the mess he’d made, including rinsing his blood off of the broken glass, he could only hope this wasn’t all for nothing. He left a note for Bonnie to be careful of glass shards on the floor (also mentioning what exactly he’d broken) and got ready to go to sleep. By the time he’d gotten into bed, he’d already bled through the dressing on his wrist.

Chapter Text

When Wilson woke up the next morning, Bonnie was in bed next to him. He hadn’t noticed her come in. She was still asleep, as far away from him as she could possibly get without falling out of bed entirely, which wasn’t encouraging. He sat up and looked down at his wrist. Having bled through the gauze before bed, he’d changed the dressing and the second one had held up through the night. In the shower, he carefully soaked the area with warm water, hoping to avoid disturbing any scabbing in the switch to a bandaid.

Once out of the shower with a towel around his waist, Wilson opened a bandaid and carefully trimmed it down as much as possible using a pair of small grooming scissors. He peeled off the dressing. It seemed like the cut was indeed starting to scab over- just shallow enough to avoid the need for stitches. He carefully positioned the bandaid over it and finished getting ready for the day. He put on his watch last, buckling the strap tightly, and though the pressure was uncomfortable, he could tolerate it. Wilson carefully examined the profile of the watch and his wrist from every angle, and was relieved to see that there was no visible evidence of anything beneath it.

As promised, Wilson stopped at the cafe on the corner that he frequented to pick up some actually edible breakfast to share with House. Waiting in line, his stomach started to roil with anxiety. He was going to find out if it was a match- if they were a match- in less than an hour. He felt a twinge of regret. Maybe not knowing would have been better for everyone. Why did he have to be overcome with that House-like compulsion to find out the truth? It wouldn’t change anything. He wouldn’t let it change anything. But maybe he’d get lucky and find no mark at all on House’s wrist, and then he’d be able to forget about this whole foolish little crisis. Part of him wondered if that was truly what he’d consider good luck at all. He ordered two cups of coffee, two breakfast sandwiches, and two danishes. Hopefully that would be enough to satisfy House, so Wilson might actually get to eat all of his own food for once.

In the hospital, Stacy was sitting in the hall again, doing some paperwork on her lap. “No luck?” Wilson asked, smiling apologetically as if it was somehow his fault. She shook her head.

“Maybe I should just stop visiting. He obviously doesn’t want to see me.”

“It’s only been a couple of days. Just give him some time. He’ll simmer down eventually.”

“I really want you to be right, James. But I’m not sure he will. It might really be over.”

“At least wait until he’s out of here.” She sighed and rested her chin in her hand, staring at the closed blinds in House’s room.

“I’ll think about it.” Her voice was soft and sad. Wilson watched her, trying to think of something else to say. He was stalling.

“Thank you,” he murmured lamely, then entered the room. House was, as ever, in bed. His eyes were closed and his hands were up behind his head. The TV droned quietly in the corner. Wilson came a few steps closer and tossed a wrapped sandwich at House, hitting him square in the chest. “Steeee-rike one!” Wilson called as he pulled open the blinds covering the outer window.

“You hit me with it,” House mumbled, “that makes it a ball.” Wilson ignored him.

“You asked for an edible breakfast,” he continued, “so here I am, your knight of slightly-better-food in shining armor.”

“I’m not letting my golden hair down from the tower for at least another forty-five minutes.” House’s voice crackled lowly with sleep and he was squinting one eye closed against the sunlight. He hadn’t moved his arms and the breakfast sandwich sat on his lap.

“House, it’s eight-thirty.”

“My point stands.” Wilson chuckled and shook his head good-naturedly, a soft warmth blooming in his chest that he hoped would go away. He set a cup of coffee and a danish on the hospital bed table and swiveled it towards House, then pulled up a chair and side table for himself. House stretched his arms up and yawned. Wilson hadn’t picked a good wrist-viewing angle. When House lowered his arms and started unwrapping his sandwich, Wilson’s stomach dropped. The damn hospital bracelet. The width of the opaque plastic covered the place where the scar either would or wouldn’t be. He quickly turned his attention to his own food to avoid being caught staring. The only chance he’d had was when House was stretching, and he missed it. He wanted to break something. “So,” said House through a mouthful of sandwich, “how’s the Wicked Witch of Downtown Princeton?” It took Wilson a moment to resurface from his thoughts.

“Actually I wouldn’t know. She went out with friends before I got home, came back while I was asleep, and hadn’t woken up when I left.”

“Guess I should stop borrowing so much of your money so you can start saving for that second line of alimony, huh.”

“Shut up, House.” An edge of real anger cut through his voice.

“Who pissed in your Corn Pops this morning?”

“I don’t know, but it might have something to do with you trying to predict the failure of my marriage!” They were both silent for a moment, Wilson unwrapping his sandwich with deliberately measured motions. When he spoke again, there was a forced calm to his voice. “You were asleep when I got here. How did you manage to banish Stacy to the hallway without even opening your eyes?”

“She came in here and woke me up, I told her to go indiscriminately mutilate people somewhere else, she left, and I went back to sleep.”

“Stop being such an ass, House. She cares about you!”

“I don’t make a habit of taking relationship advice from a guy with two failed marriages.” Wilson threw his sandwich down on the table.

“Can we drop it? I don’t want to talk about Bonnie, you don’t want to talk about Stacy, just drop it.” For once, House nodded agreeably and continued eating. Food was the only thing Wilson knew of that could get the man to stop talking. House seemingly tuned Wilson out, watching TV as he ate instead. Wilson kept glancing over out of the corner of his eye, hoping to get a peek beneath the bracelet, or that House might brush it out of the way. As nine o’clock neared, Wilson started to get frustrated. He’d gone through all of that, shattered glass all over his kitchen, and intentionally injured himself, for nothing? All to be screwed over by a cheap little piece of plastic? He crumpled up his sandwich wrapper with just a little too much force.

“Still mad?” House was watching him now. Wilson just looked back at him stonily and started on his danish. He could feel House’s eyes drilling into him as he ate.

“I need to get going soon,” Wilson said neutrally.

“Got a hot date with a dying old lady?”

“Something like that.” He got up and threw his wrappers in the trash. Behind him, he could hear the rough, dry sound of an itch being vigorously scratched.

“Oh, what the hell?” House sounded both surprised and exasperated. Wilson turned around. He’d yanked up his hospital bracelet and was frowning at his wrist. “What a fucking moron. How do you even do this to yourself?” He held up his arm.

Overlaid with dusty white lines from being scratched at, there it was. Curved and uneven, ruddy but healed, complete with the single, stabbed point. Wilson had to manually close his mouth.

“Wow, that’s… a pretty strange cut. Must have been a real idiot.”

“See, this is why I don’t buy the whole perfect, pre-destined mate crap. There’s no way I’m genetically matched to someone this stupid.”

“Maybe nature is hoping your giant brain will balance it out to create children of reasonably average intelligence.” House barked a single laugh in response and dropped his hand.

“Don’t you have sick people to cuddle or something?”

“Yeah, I do.” Wilson left the room, feeling like a bomb had just gone off in his face. Stacy looked up from her work.

“Hey, are you okay? You look… pale.” He blinked several times.

“Oh yeah. Fine. Just uh… haven’t gotten a lot of sleep lately… gotta go.” He hurried away towards his office.

Chapter Text

Wilson stared at nothing. He stood in his office, leaned against the back of the door, eyes unfocused. What now? It felt like he didn’t even know himself anymore.

What he wouldn’t give to un-know this. Wilson squeezed his eyelids shut and tried to focus on regulating his breathing. He felt sick to his stomach. His life seemed to be falling to pieces before him faster than he could possibly pick them back up. He might have thought he could handle this before, but now that it was here…

He approached his desk slowly, like he thought he might collapse, and sat down. He felt foolish for being so shocked. He’d known this could be one of the outcomes. But he never thought about what he would do if his suspicions were confirmed as they had been. He’d been too absorbed in the finding out to really consider the consequences. He knew House would never want… he couldn’t even let himself finish the thought. If he kept thinking about it, he might not be able to hide it. And he had to hide it. He needed to build a damn nuclear fallout bunker around it.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. Wilson did his best to attend to his patients as normally as possible, and it seemed that no one noticed anything was off, but it felt to him like he was playing a role he no longer fit. House would be expecting a visit from him, but he couldn’t do it. He’d promised himself that this revelation would change nothing between them, but he felt like he’d never be the same again.

He left on time that evening, without so much as a glance towards the path to House’s room. On his way home, he stopped at the grocery store. He was going through the motions, doing what he could to save his relationship, because it was what he was supposed to do. Because maybe if he tried hard enough, he could escape. He picked up ingredients to make a dinner Bonnie liked as well as a bouquet of flowers. Girls usually liked that. Driving the rest of the way home, he tried not to think. Not about House, not about Bonnie, not about the cut throbbing under his watch, not about anything. It was all too difficult. Wind buffeted his car and light, warm rain began to patter on the roof. Thunder rolled heavily in the distance.

As he walked through the front door, he called Bonnie’s name. There was no response, though he’d seen her car in the driveway and could hear the television in the other room. He put away the groceries and went to the living room with the flowers. Bonnie was sitting on the couch, diligently ignoring him. He sat down next to her and held the bouquet out. She just stared at it in disgust. He sighed. “Bonnie, I’m sorry. I haven’t been giving you the time you deserve.”

“Don’t apologize,” she said flatly, “I know you have your husband to take care of.”

“You know it’s not-“ he spluttered in shock, “I can’t control what shows up on my body!”

“I told you not to apologize. It’s not your fault.” He took a moment to stay himself before speaking again.

“It’s not House. I promise. I checked.” She tried to hide the relief on her face. He was relieved himself that she believed him. “I understand how you must feel. I’d feel the same way. But even though transfer is out of my control, how I treat you is not. I don’t believe in predestination. I don’t care about anyone else. I want to stay with you no matter what.” Bonnie finally met Wilson’s eyes. “I love you,” he lied, silently promising himself he could make it true. She smiled thinly and took the flowers.

“Thank you. I love you too.” They kissed briefly and Wilson got up.

“Let me cook tonight.”

“You really know how to fix a woman’s heart,” she said with a small but genuine laugh on her voice. Wilson winked.

“Just call me the Love Doctor.”

***

Through the blinds that no one had bothered to close since that morning, House watched the sky over Princeton darken with clouds. He pulled back the hospital bracelet and shifted his wrist from side to side, watching the stormy blue-green light that bled into the room play off of the new, differently textured skin. Lightning flashed, shimmering on the shiny strip of flesh making up the scar. He hadn’t noticed it until this morning when it started itching. He’d been so numbed up that he had no idea when it actually appeared.

Stacy tried to visit him before leaving for the day, but he’d rebuffed her again. He didn’t understand how anyone really expected him to trust her after what she did to him. Love was great and all, but when it came down to it, she betrayed him. He couldn’t forgive her.

There was a knock on the door and House hastily pushed the bracelet back over his wrist. To his disappointment, it was Cuddy who entered. “How are you feeling?” she asked with a put-on air of nonchalance.

“Like a guy who just had a fist-sized chunk of muscle cut out of his leg.”

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have asked.” She pulled up a chair and sat down.

“What are you doing here?”

“Checking on you. What does it look like?”

“With a blouse like that, it looks like you’re coming onto me.” She rolled her eyes.

“You’d better be careful, or I’ll roll this bed downstairs so you can start catching up on clinic duty.”

“I’m shaking in my grippy socks.” Cuddy laughed mildly. House twisted the hospital bracelet thoughtfully around his wrist. “Is it just me, or has Wilson been weird the past two days?” All traces of laughter left Cuddy’s face.

“Well… no weirder than someone whose best friend just underwent a life altering procedure can be expected to act, I guess.” She sat very still, watching House’s face. He scrutinized her right back. “I know you get uncomfortable when people care about you, House, but-“

“Oh shut up,” he cut her off, “Forget it.” She gave him a concerned look. “I’m tired. You don’t have to sit here.”

“Are you sure?” He glared at her as though he was about to hurl some very obscene insults, so she quickly left. House stared after her. He fidgeted with the bracelet again and felt a strange, unsteady feeling in his chest. He knew no one else would stop by that night.

He was alone.

***

Wilson stared at the ceiling. He and Bonnie were twined together in bed, naked. She was asleep. What was he going to tell House tomorrow? Was he going to visit him at all? He worried that any excuse he could come up with would be met with even more suspicion, but not showing up wouldn’t be any better. And, to his dismay, he really did want to see him. He could say that he went right home after work to appease Bonnie, which was technically true, but not the real reason he didn’t visit. Would House be able to tell? He didn’t want to get cocky in light of his apparent victory. The whole thing could fall apart with one wrong move.

In the morning, Wilson made breakfast for Bonnie and served it to her in bed, complete with a rose in a small vase clipped from a bush outside. He knew he was laying it on a little thick, but it seemed to make her happy and he was desperate. Before he left, he kissed her sweetly, caressing her cheek with the back of his hand. She looked more in love than he’d seen her in a long time. It was working.

He went to work and stopped at his office first, trying to psych himself up to see House. He paced rapidly, shaking his hands out in the air, and practicing his story in his head. Bonnie had called to ask if he was coming home for dinner. She’d sounded so pathetic over the phone that he had to go straight home to talk her off of the ledge, but at least he got laid. That last part would probably make it work- to House, everything was about sex. He glanced at his watch. 8:25. It took him about five minutes to get to House’s room, and he’d also be suspicious if he wasn’t punctual.

He made his way down to House’s room, greeting colleagues along the way, trying to seem himself. Stacy was out in the hallway as usual. She looked up. “Feeling better?” Wilson stopped walking abruptly.

“What?”

“You looked like you might be coming down with something when I saw you yesterday.”

“Oh. Yeah. I just needed a good night’s sleep.” He smiled weakly.

“I’m glad to hear it. Be careful in there, he’s in an extra foul mood.”

“Thanks for the heads up.” He opened the door and entered the lion’s den. House was awake, looking out the window, expressionless. He didn’t acknowledge Wilson’s presence. Wilson hazarded a simple “Hey.” House didn’t move.

“Took you long enough.”

“Look, I’m sorry. Bonnie called yesterday to see if I was coming home for dinner, and she was so pathetic about it I had no choice. I had to go talk her down.”

“I hope the sex was worth it.” Wilson laughed wanly and sat down.

“It was good.” He watched House’s face, which was angled away from him. He couldn’t help but notice the curvature of his lips. The form of his brow. The sharp jut of his cheekbones. He mentally shook himself. This was getting too weird. “So, how’s it going?”

“They want to start trying to get me back on my feet in a couple of days,” House scoffed.

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Yeah, it’ll be so much fun learning exactly how crippled I am.” Wilson paused, thinking for a moment.

“You know, I think that’s pretty understandable.” House finally looked at him.

“Wow. You still have the ability to surprise me. Guess I don’t have to put you out to pasture after all.” Wilson raised an eyebrow.

“Why? What did you think I was going to say?”

“That I’m being childish and I need to think of what I have and not what I wish I had. Or some other form of ‘get over it.’” Wilson frowned and met House’s eyes. God they were so blue. He quickly looked away.

“House, you have every right to grieve what you’ve lost. But that doesn’t give you the freedom to treat Stacy like she’s a murderer.”

“If she’d get away from me, I wouldn’t have to treat her like anything.”

“You don’t stop loving someone because they’re mad at you.”

“What she did wasn’t love, it was ownership! She won’t leave because now she thinks I’m dependent on her, and that is what she loves.”

Wilson didn’t reply, lost in thought. When he looked up, House was watching him. He had no idea how long it took him to notice. “I never took you for the strong silent type; more like the girly, talk-about-your-feelings type.” House waited expectantly. Wilson opened and closed his mouth. He knew. He had to know. He just wanted to make Wilson admit it first.

“House, I…” A thousand scenarios played out in his head simultaneously. House treating him like a stranger. House accepting him into his life, into his bed. House refusing to change anything about their relationship. House running away and Wilson never seeing him again, forcing him to carry this pain with him for the rest of his life. He cut himself off, feeling like he’d just barely managed to avoid skidding over the edge of a cliff. No. If House knew, he could say it himself. If their friendship ended over it, he refused to let it be his own fault. If he had to wait, then so be it. “I… just remembered I have an early appointment. I have to go.” He hurried out of the room, feeling House’s eyes boring into him as he went. This might be the most idiotic game of chicken on planet earth, but he was going to play it.

Chapter Text

He refused to tell House. Not when Stacy finally dumped him, tired of constant blame and abuse. Not when he couldn’t pretend anymore and he and Bonnie divorced. Not when Wilson started dating Julie or when they got married. Wilson had sought out other relationships intentionally, hoping that the pain would fade, that he could just forget. He couldn’t. He didn’t tell House when Stacy showed up out of the blue with her husband, and not when Wilson and Julie split up and he crashed on House’s couch.

When House got shot, Wilson was compelled to buy scar fading cream and, much to his embarrassment, concealer, since the location of the scar was so immediately visible. He began to wonder exactly how long he could keep this charade up. Would he take it to his grave? That felt awfully grim, but he was starting to think that might be how it would go. Under other circumstances, Wilson would have felt like he’d pulled off the heist of the millennium in actually managing to trick House, that is, if House really didn’t know and wasn’t just hiding it too. But House was the king of holding things over people’s heads, so he couldn’t imagine him not using this to his advantage. He’d been so certain that House had figured it out too, but the more time passed, the less sure he became.

Things didn’t get better. Every time he ran into House on his way in to work after a night apart, he felt a biting, hollow ache in his chest. If House made him laugh too hard, the air would begin to pierce his lungs like daggers and he’d have to take a little extra time to catch his breath. There was so much he wanted that he could never have. That he wished he didn’t want at all.

Every so often, when he was alone, after more than a few drinks, Wilson might let the walls he’d built in his mind slip ever so slightly. Visions of gentle domesticity would dance before his eyes- a small house in a quiet part of town, two cars and a motorcycle in the driveway. Washing dishes and passing them to be dried. A shared bed. Two toothbrushes in a cup on the bathroom sink. Carpooling to work. Falling asleep in front of the television against a tall, narrow, warm presence. He never let those thoughts progress past that point. Even when he was plastered he knew there would be no coming back if he did. Drunkenly, he’d berate himself for getting sucked into such base instincts. Anyone could fulfill that role, not just… him.

After House’s mandatory night in jail post Tritter fiasco, Wilson picked up a pizza and a six pack and went to spend an evening at House’s apartment. He knocked on the door and heard the rhythmic thunk of cane and feet coming to let him in. House flung open the door and immediately started back to the couch. “Knicks are on,” he called over his shoulder.

“Who’s winning?” Wilson entered, closing the door behind him.

“Who do you think?” Wilson laughed and set the pizza and beer down on the coffee table, settling into the couch next to House. He was extremely aware of the physical distance he was maintaining between them. House grabbed a piece of pizza and Wilson cracked a beer. They watched the game mostly in silence, occasionally commenting or yelling in response to it.

Wilson tried to pay attention, but as had proven true on so many late nights, especially when alcohol was involved, his mind kept wandering. He felt a familiar, treacherous desire to just come right out and say it, which he immediately tried to subdue. He could stand to lose so much if he did, he reminded himself. But he could gain so much too, another part of him said. No. He’d broken so many promises, both to himself and others, but this was not one he’d risk. It didn’t matter how much he wanted to, how much the idealistic side of him said it could go well. He knew better. Trying to shake away the conflict in his mind, he shifted in his seat and accidentally kicked an empty beer bottle House had set down. It skittered across the floor, colliding with a leg of the coffee table and breaking into pieces. “Shit!” muttered Wilson, and without thinking, he bent forward to start picking up the shards.

A sharp point of glass pricked his index finger and they both took a sharp inhale at the same time. Wilson froze. It was all over. Years of secrecy and suppression. He’d worked so damn hard, and now in one fell swoop, everything would come crashing down. There was no way to come back from this. He slowly looked up to see House watching him intensely and impassively. No one moved for a very long time. Eventually Wilson looked down at his hand. A single droplet of blood had formed on the pulp of his finger. When he looked back up, House had extended his hand to display the tiny red dot that appeared on his finger in the exact same place. Wilson took a deep, almost shuddering breath, assembling his words one by one before speaking. “I should have told you.” His voice was low and pained.

“I already knew.” He finally met House’s eyes. His expression was unreadable.

“How?”

“After I bailed you out at the conference, you kept whining about a V-shaped cut on the side of your foot. You said a piece of glass from the mirror you broke got into your shoe and poked you through your sock. I noticed a matching scar on myself when I took a shower later.” Wilson stared at him open-mouthed.

“You knew. You knew all this time, and you never said anything?”

“Didn’t seem relevant.”

“What?”

“It’s not like there’s any reproduction to be had here, which is the primary purpose of the mechanism. And neither of us believes in-“

“I do.” Wilson’s voice was quiet, stunned, as if he couldn’t believe the words coming out of his own mouth.

“No you don’t. You just think you do because you figured it out and it makes you feel weird-“

“And you never said anything because you were afraid to screw it up like you’ve screwed up everything else in your life!” They just looked at each other in silence. Wilson realized that the gap between them had closed, their thighs touching. The Knicks game had been long forgotten.

“No. I never said anything because it isn’t relevant. It doesn’t change anything.” Wilson stood up.

“I think I should leave.”

***

The next time they saw each other was at work. Wilson opened his mouth to say something as they passed in the hallway, but House looked right through him, as if he was a stranger. He stopped walking abruptly after House was behind him. This was what he’d been afraid of. His chest ached.

And so it continued for a week: House acting, not only as if he’d never met Wilson, but as if Wilson was the most uninteresting person on the face of the planet, which might have actually been worse, and Wilson going back to his sad, dingy hotel room each night, alone, upset, and increasingly angry. How could the bastard drop a bomb like that on him, that he’d always known they were a matched pair, and then so thoroughly leave him out to dry? Some part of him desperately wanted to punch the smirk off of House’s self-satisfied face. Wilson couldn’t believe this meant nothing to House. He was certain House was screwing with him in an awful, cruel sort of way, and that made him want to knock his lights out even more.

It became so apparent that something was going on that even House’s team began to take notice. At the start of the second week of this bizarre torture, there was a light knock at Wilson’s office door. He looked up from his work and Cameron’s head was poking through the door. “Can I come in?” she asked gently. Wilson could already tell what this was going to be about.

“Sure.” She entered and sat down in a chair on the other side of his desk. She spoke before Wilson could even start to ask what she needed.

“I’ve noticed how House has been acting around you lately. Is everything okay?” Yup. He was right about why she was here.

“I guess he’s just in one of his moods.”

“You’re usually the one person he’ll actually talk to when he gets like that, though.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. Sometimes I can get through to him and sometimes I can’t. Now is just one of those times when I can’t.”

“I think you should talk to him.”

“It’s pretty hard to have a conversation with a brick wall behind a brick wall.”

“Maybe I can get him to come to you.” He shook his head.

“Cameron, I’m saying this as someone who’s known House for a long time. Don’t get involved. Please.” She studied Wilson carefully, as if she was looking for some kind of tell that he actually did want her help, but was obliged to refuse it for some reason.

“Okay. Let me know if you change your mind.” Cameron stood up and left. Wilson was sure this wouldn’t be the end of it.

He decided that if House was going to screw with him, he’d give it right back. Whenever he was free and House was doing a differential with his team, he’d slip into the outer office and lean against the glass, offering a mixture of intentionally dense diagnoses and very apt ones. He’d even go so far as to shoot down things House’s team said before House himself got the chance to. Chase and Foreman were clearly starting to get annoyed by him, but Cameron seemed glad that he was making an effort to interact with House. The amount of rage Wilson could see in House’s eyes at these interruptions was painful at first, but he began to wonder if it was the look of something else that was being repressed. Or at least he hoped it was.

After a particularly difficult session in which Wilson refuted nearly all of the team’s ideas and, much to Wilson’s satisfaction, House was forced to admit that Wilson’s diagnosis was likely correct, the door to his office flew open. House barreled into the room.

“Get out of my way.” House’s voice was flat and loud. He was looking at Wilson’s face, but not making eye contact. Wilson sat back in his chair, resting his hands behind his head.

“I think I’m having fun.” House limped over and slammed his free hand on the desk. He bent down towards Wilson.

“Get out of my way.” House repeated. Wilson leaned forward. Their faces were perilously close. He could feel House’s warm, coffee and mint scented breath. Wilson made intense eye contact with the other man and he felt him almost shrink away, which surprised him. An electromagnetic current seemed to be pinging back and forth between them, drawing them closer by millimeter. Wilson’s breathing got imperceptibly quicker before speaking.

“No.” House straightened up, breaking their connection, and popped a Vicodin. With one last not-quite-eye-contact glare, he stormed off, leaving the door open.

Chapter Text

House didn’t show up for work the next day. At first, Wilson thought it was cause for concern. But with the way things had been between them lately, he wasn’t actually all that surprised that House didn’t say anything to him about it.

While charting in the late afternoon, there was a knock at his door. He looked up, and there was Cameron again. He motioned her in and she sat down. “How’d it go?” she asked with a twinge of excitement in her voice.

“What are you talking about?” She looked down guiltily.

“Well… yesterday, I bet a hundred dollars it would take House a month to willingly go talk to you. Chase bet a hundred on a week, Foreman bet a hundred on a day, and House bet a hundred on five minutes and came right over here.” Wilson stared at her in disbelief for a moment before pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Do you know why he didn’t come in today?” Wilson sounded suddenly exhausted.

“No. I… actually expected that you wouldn’t be here either.” He looked up at her.

“Why?” She blushed.

“Sometimes, when you stay here overnight, I can start to see the…” she pointed to the place on her own neck where Wilson shared House’s gunshot scar. “I don’t think anyone else has noticed it, though.” They stared at each other, Wilson wide-eyed, Cameron turning increasingly deeper shades of scarlet.

“Don’t you have a case to focus on?” She didn’t, but she took the hint and left.

***

House didn’t show up the next day. Or the day after that. Or the entire following week. In a different time, Wilson would have considered breaking into House’s apartment, but he might actually get himself in trouble with things being the way they were. So he made his way down to Cuddy’s office instead. He entered the room and she spoke without looking up. “I’m busy.”

“This won’t take long.” He didn’t sit down to prove it. She sighed and set down her pen, giving him her attention.

“Where’s House?” She raised an eyebrow.

“He didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

“He went on sabbatical.” Wilson clenched his jaw to keep it from dropping.

“And you let him?”

“He said he’d quit if I didn’t, and actually showed me the resignation letter he’d use, which, knowing House, is an awful lot of preparation for a bluff.”

“Where’s he going?”

“He wouldn’t tell me.”

“Did he say how long he’d be gone?” Cuddy shrugged noncommittally.

“Six months to a year. I couldn’t get him to be more specific than that.”

“A year? But he will be coming back eventually.”

“He said he would, but retention after long sabbaticals is mediocre at best.”

“Yeah…” he turned around slowly, as if in a dream, and left the room.

Wilson went back up to his office, reeling. An entire year. With a shaky guarantee of a return. This was his worst fear coming true.

***

During the first month House was gone, Wilson attempted to date. He went speed dating. He went on blind dates. He took practically every nurse who would have him out to dinner at least once. But he felt nothing. He gave up after a brand new radiology nurse stormed out of a restaurant on him because he seemed too disengaged.

During the second month, he started taking tours of apartments. Living in a hotel was infinitely worse without somewhere else to go first, and he was tired of hearing a different couple every night getting down and dirty through paper thin walls. He debated with himself over one bedroom or two bedroom. He knew he’d never actually need extra space for someone else, but he couldn’t stop a tiny corner of his mind from hanging onto hope.

Without another place to go after work and dread twisting in his stomach at the thought of his empty bed, Wilson began to take walks through the city. This was something he couldn’t do with House anymore, and it gave him at least a sliver of joy in darkness. The seasons began to change, dead winter slowly losing its grip to the plying fingers of tender spring. He wondered if House was somewhere with the same climate, or if he’d run off to some tropical island with a booming sex work industry. With spring came heavy rain, but it didn’t keep Wilson inside. He trudged through mud and flooded sidewalks, sheltered beneath a windbreaker and an old golf umbrella from when he and House still played.

During the third month, Wilson moved into an apartment of his own. Against his better judgement, he’d gotten a two bedroom. The place was unfurnished and it seemed massive and empty, and he didn’t find it any more inviting than his hotel room. His mattress sat on the floor and he situated a single folding chair in front of a flatscreen. He ate out of disposable dishes with plastic cutlery.

Wilson hadn’t checked the weather forecast that day. He was tired of carrying that damn umbrella around, and he’d probably be fine. He took his walk in the park down the street from his apartment. Wrinkled burgundy buds were starting to develop on the bare tree branches and pale purple crocuses were pushing up from the hard soil, a few even beginning to bloom. Thin pink worms littered the concrete path, washed from their earthen homes by the previous night’s rains. In another time, these sights might have been hopeful ones, but now they were just a sign that the world was changing while he lived in the past. The shadows began to move, shifting and darkening. Wilson looked up. Deep gray clouds were roiling over his head, blocking out the sun that was already low in the sky. He kept walking. So what if he got rained on? It was just water. A single fat raindrop plopped down on his forehead. And another. And another. In the blink of an eye it was pouring ice cold rain. Wilson was soaked before he’d even moved five paces. He hurried back to his apartment, his shoes squelching, hair plastered to his head. By the time he finally got inside, he was shaking from the cold.

When he woke in the morning it was still raining, just as hard as the previous evening. He tried to stand up, but was knocked back onto the bed by a harsh, rattling cough that made his chest hurt and his vision blur. He and House had been trading off as each other’s primary care physicians for so long that the idea of going to the clinic felt uncomfortable and foreign, but he did anyway. The tired looking radiologist who examined him said he seemed to have the start of pneumonia. So with a fresh prescription for antibiotics and Cuddy’s permission, Wilson took the rest of the week off to recover.

Isolated in his empty apartment, Wilson’s mind began to delve into dark corners. Maybe there was something to the whole soulmates thing. He’d found his, lost him, and felt like an empty, decaying shell as a result. Maybe he could never love anyone else. Maybe no one else could ever love him. But it seemed that the one person who could, didn’t. Maybe he would die alone. That insidious thought circled in his head over and over again, like some kind of agonizing mantra.

He spent his days eating microwaved soup from a can and watching reruns of I Love Lucy and Tivo’d episodes of General Hospital. He didn’t even like General Hospital, but if he ever saw House again, he’d want to be up to date.

Some time in the middle of the week, Wilson opened his eyes in a hazy panic. He was supposed to be at work, he thought, but something immediately froze his anxiety. Gentle, long hands were caressing up and down his back, digging into his shoulder blades with delicious pressure. Hot breath on the side of his neck, a ghost of lips and rough stubble on his skin. His own breathing was painful and labored, but it didn’t matter. He knew who was there with him, and that was enough. His eyes slipped closed again.

He was awakened later by a painful, ripping coughing fit that made his body writhe and contort. Even after the coughing subsided, he couldn’t catch his breath. He gripped the sheets, looking around frantically for… for…

With a single, breathless and bitter cough-laugh, Wilson realized that it had been a fever dream. There was no one else there. He sat up slowly, the simple action leaving him even more out of breath. He grabbed a tissue and held it to his mouth as he coughed, producing thick globs of phlegm and pus. That wasn’t good. He needed to get to the hospital. He tried to stand but ended up on his knees, doubled over and gasping for breath. There was no way he’d be able to get there himself and there was no one else to take him. He fumblingly reached for his phone and dialed three digits.

In the hospital, Wilson saw him every time he closed his eyes. He was sitting by his side, holding his hand. He was laying in the bed with him, rubbing his back or his chest. He was administering medication into his IV. The line between dream and reality blurred, and he let it stay that way, what remained of his sleeping rational mind unwilling to break the beautiful illusion. He wanted to keep hearing those soft, unintelligible words being mumbled to him. To feel those unreal hands on his body. It was all he had.

After a few days, Wilson’s condition began to improve. More lucid, the dreams stopped. He’d never been more disappointed by being healthy. He was discharged in less than a week, and at Cuddy’s recommendation, Wilson hired an interior decorator.

The decorator made quick work of Wilson’s apartment, and for reasons he could not understand, he requested she set up the extra bedroom as a combination guest room and office, with an upright piano against the wall by the window. Once finished, Wilson never entered that room, always keeping the door closed.

During the fourth month of House’s absence, Wilson gave up on looking for ways to make his life better. He took any opportunity he could find to stay at work later: taking extra cases, mentoring junior doctors, even covering clinic hours, all to avoid sitting alone in his dark, empty apartment, staring numbly at that closed bedroom door. He went to work and went home. He went to work and went home. He went to work and went home. He slept little and ate little. It felt like his life had lost all meaning.

The days and weeks began to bleed into each other. He couldn’t remember now if it was the fifth or sixth month since House had gone. Maybe he’d be coming back soon. Maybe he wouldn’t. Wilson continued to provide a high standard of care to his patients, but that was the only aspect of his life that was good, that made sense. The sun rose and set. The earth continued rotating, rocketing along in its orbit. Babies were born, people died. Life went on around Wilson, but he stood still, alone.

Chapter Text

It was unusual for House to do anything without a plan, even if that plan was just “let’s see what happens.” But this time, as he ripped out of town on his motorcycle into the frozen night, he had no idea what he was doing or where he was going. He just knew he had to go. He couldn’t handle the magnitude of what was happening in his life, and he hated that he couldn’t. He knew that if he let things play out, he’d find some way to destroy it all, and then he’d end up totally and irrevocably alone. At least this way he’d be able to live with the idea that it might have worked. It couldn’t end badly if he didn’t stick around long enough for things to go south. He focused on the biting wind that found its way to his face beneath his helmet. If there was one thing he could count on, it was himself. That was all he needed, he reminded himself. That was all he’d ever had.

***

Birds twittered and sang in the tree branches outside, heralding another humid but diamond-clear late summer day. Awakened by the rich, honeyed notes of a mourning dove, Wilson got out of bed and stretched. He was… hungry? He hadn’t felt compelled to eat much more than was needed to survive lately, so he was unused to actually wanting to eat. He trudged sleepily out into the kitchen and cracked two eggs into a frying pan on the stove. He turned the television on to the local morning news and noticed the date showing in the onscreen ticker. It was six months to the day since House had left. He turned the information over in his mind a few times, unsure of what to do with it. The smell of his cooking breakfast soon enticed him away from the television, allowing him to simply let it drop, yet another oddity.

After eating his breakfast and drinking a cup of coffee, Wilson got ready for work. He found himself humming a tune from some song he’d heard on the radio. As he stepped outside, he felt a warm, fragrant rush of summer air against his face, and it made his lips curve up. Was he… happy? Was that what this was? It seemed wrong, but he couldn’t deny it. He drove to work with all the windows cracked, enjoying the warmth for the first time that season, late as it was.

As he went about his work, everything felt a little lighter. Smiling came easier, felt more genuine, less put-on. He couldn’t guess why there had been such a sudden change, but he didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth- this happiness was a welcome relief. After his regular hours, he’d wanted to leave, go for a walk and enjoy himself for once, but he’d already agreed to cover evening clinic hours.

After treating a hundred cases of poison ivy and seasonal allergies, Wilson tramped back up to his office around eight o’clock. Maybe, he thought as he climbed the stairs, he didn’t need House. Maybe he was going to be alright after all, it had just taken him a while to move on. Even just thinking that he could finally be getting on with his life lifted some previously unknown weight from Wilson’s shoulders.

He started to collect his things to leave, looking forward to taking in the end of the sunset from the park, but his bag slipped out of his fingers as he looked through the glass door onto the balcony. There, silhouetted starkly against the purple-pink dusk was the angular figure of…

Wilson checked his own pulse then pinched himself. No, this was definitely real. A sudden fury twisted his face. Of course. After all this time, just as he’d started to move on, House would show up to make it all about himself again. This was just like him! Electricity fired through his veins and he flew out onto the balcony. “House!” Wilson’s voice was coarse with rage and House whipped around to face him. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could make a sound Wilson threw a hard left hook to House’s jaw. The force of the hit knocked him to the ground and back against the brick railing of the balcony, his cane skittering away. Wilson leaned forward and grabbed fistfuls of House’s collar, dragging him to his feet like he was going to hit him again, but instead shoved him back against the brick and crushed his lips to House’s.

He seemed startled at first, still and stiff against Wilson’s body, but soon his lips were moving feverishly, hands grasping at the other man’s hips. Wilson could hear his heart pounding in his ears, his stomach jolting thrillingly. He felt like he had just taken a plunge into ice cold water, his entire body tingling as it tried to regulate itself. He let his tongue press into House’s mouth, drawing a low, soft moan from his throat. House pulled away ever so slightly, just far enough to look Wilson in the face. Wilson thought he’d seen that look in House’s eyes before- usually directed at Stacy, right before the two of them would disappear together for an hour or so.

“You were right,” murmured House.

“About what?” Wilson thought he’d never hear House say those words so plainly to him. He almost wished he had something to record it with.

“I was afraid I’d screw it up.” He sounded almost contrite, incredibly rare for House.

“Is that why you left?”

“Yes.” Wilson sighed, stepping back.

“Hey! It was just getting good!”

“You can’t expect me to just welcome you into my life again with no questions asked. You acted like I didn’t exist then disappeared for six months!” He pointed at House accusingly. “You have no idea what that did to me! I doubt you even care what it did to me! And you did all of that because you were scared to screw things up? How could you have possibly thought doing what you did wouldn’t screw things up?” Wilson began to pace back and forth across the balcony, anger swelling in him again. “Did you think you’d get a free pass just because of our scar transfer?”

“I kinda did, yeah.” House tilted his head down, eyes focused on the corner where the balcony met the building.

“Look. I- I need time to process this. I’m not saying no outright, I just… need to think.”

“Fine.”

“Are you officially back from your sabbatical?”

“First day’s tomorrow.” Wilson nodded wordlessly and went inside.

***

Wilson threw his briefcase in the trunk of his car and got in the driver’s seat, buckling his seatbelt. He rolled down all of the windows and hit the gas, car screaming out of the hospital parking garage. He turned off the main road at the first highway entrance, revving his engine and rocketing up the ramp.

He drove without a destination, watching the last sliver of the sun drown in the horizon, its death sparks fading slowly away into the night. As he left the city behind, stars twinkled into view, frozen droplets of light in a vast abyssal expanse. The moon rose to take the sun’s place like a great, luminous death mask, casting an eerie, pale light over the warm, amber glow of the high pressure sodium street lamps lining the highway.

Of course he wanted House. This was the moment he’d been dreaming of for months. How could he possibly let it slip away? But how, too, could he let House win? Let him get away with it? It came as no surprise that House was a manipulative, narcissistic bastard. This was well established information. And here, as he always did, House had scoped out exactly how he might push this relationship to the breaking point, then went even further. If Wilson went with him now, there would be no telling what House would do next to destroy them.

Maybe House had changed in six months. He’d been willing to admit that Wilson was right, which seemed like a step in that direction. And Wilson really wanted to believe it was true. But House had always been so certain that people never changed, and Wilson knew that most of House’s tightly held beliefs about human nature were reflections of his beliefs about himself. If House believed he couldn’t change, he never would. He hated to be wrong, especially about himself. And yet… he’d already admitted to being wrong just in the few minutes Wilson had been near him.

What if he took the risk and it all went wrong? House was his best friend, an incredible doctor, and a brilliant person, but he also carried a massive, flashing neon “LIABILITY” sign on his back. So many things could go bad. He could get roped into some scheme and land himself without a medical license, in jail, or worse. What if House got tired of commitment, or if something else scared him off? What if Wilson finally settled down, let himself be vulnerable, and then House ran away for good? He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to handle that. He’d already gotten a hideous, agonizing taste of what that would be like, and he didn’t want more.

Wilson glanced down at the blue-green glow of the digital clock in the center console. It was almost midnight. He’d been driving for nearly four hours. He understood how a person could easily disappear into the kind of doubt that was swirling in his mind. As he pulled off the highway to get gas, he wondered if this same train of thought was what drove House to leave. What House had been running from.

He pulled into a dingy gas station with only two pumps and a single, buzzing, flickering yellow light set in the awning. He looked around for a gas station attendant, but realized he wasn’t in New Jersey anymore. He peered at the license plate on the rundown pick up truck parked in the dirt next to the tiny station convenience store. He’d driven all the way up to Connecticut. He groaned as he got out of the car, really feeling those four hours of mindless driving.

He filled up his gas tank, dreading driving another four hours back to Princeton. Maybe he should try his luck at running away too. Maybe being away from it all would give him some kind of clarity. The idea sounded immediately unappealing, partly because he had absolutely no plans made for such a huge decision, but mostly because it would mean even longer away from House. A few hours ago, Wilson had begun to think that he was moving on, but now that House was back in his life, he’d do just about anything to keep him there. He had to take the risk.

***

Wilson came into work in the morning on only a few hours of sleep. He felt dead on his feet, but he had too much work to do to stay home. He also desperately wanted to see House, but that was another matter. As he passed House’s office on his way to his own, he noticed that House was there uncharacteristically early, sorting through piles of uninteresting cases brought by his team. He was still wearing the same clothes as the day before. Had he stayed there all night? House looked up as Wilson walked by, but he kept walking without acknowledging the other doctor.

Just as Wilson was sitting down at his desk after unpacking his things, House burst through the door. “You look like hell,” he announced, throwing himself onto the couch.

“Thank you. You know how I love a good compliment.”

“That’s why I always go out of my way to shower you with them.” Wilson gazed with a trace of a smile at House, who was studying the back of the office door. House glanced at him quickly before looking back at the door, silently asking for a response. After an extended pause, Wilson spoke slowly.

“You want to know if I’ll take you back.”

“No. I want to know why you decided to get such a stupid haircut.” Wilson exhaled, shaking his head long-sufferingly.

“House, why can’t you take anything seriously?”

“It’s not in my nature. I have the Chronically Un-Serious gene mutation. Sorry.”

“I think it’s because you’re afraid to seem like you actually care. If you make everything a big joke, you can pretend nothing ever hurts you.” House turned his head to look at Wilson. He took a breath, looking like he was going to give some witty retort, but he stopped himself, closing his mouth. He nodded his head and spoke in a low, sincere voice.

“You’re right.” Wilson blinked.

“I- I am? Or are you just saying what you think I want to hear?”

“No. I don’t trust myself to handle this relationship well, so I ran. I’m still trying to run. But I don’t want to anymore. I want… I want to change. I want to do better.” Stunned, Wilson stood up and slowly walked over to the couch, sitting down beside House. He met House’s eyes and nodded.

“Okay. I’ve made my decision.” House waited for him to continue, and it seemed like there was a shimmer of anxiety in his eyes. “I’ll take you back.” The words had barely left Wilson’s mouth when House kissed him hard, almost knocking him back against the arm of the couch. House wrapped his arms around him tightly, as if he was trying to fuse the two of them together. Surprised but entirely willing, Wilson moved his lips slowly against House’s, gripping his t-shirt. Tongues connected sweetly, and Wilson reveled in the feeling of six months worth of daydreams coming true.

In a brief break to breathe, House spoke. “So,” he murmured wryly, “does this mean I’ll be getting some tonight?” Wilson turned his gaze back to House’s eyes. There was that look again. It made his stomach flip.

“House,” Wilson replied in the same tone, “you’re an ass.” And they both laughed genuinely for the first time in months.

***

Crickets and tiny frogs peeped and chirped through the open windows of Wilson’s bedroom, a cool breeze drifting in and passing over their warm, intertwined bodies. Wilson rested his head against House’s shoulder. The contentedness blossoming in Wilson’s chest was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Maybe this was where he was supposed to be all along. He glanced up at House, and judging by the small smile curving his lips, Wilson thought he felt the same way.

“There’s something I want to show you,” Wilson murmured, sitting up slowly. He hated to leave House’s embrace, but now, for once, he was certain he wasn’t going anywhere. House groaned.

“Can’t it wait? I was just getting comfortable!” Wilson smiled with a little light-hearted exasperation.

“You’ll like it. I promise.”

“God, fine. But you’ll pay dearly for disturbing my slumber.” Wilson smirked.

“I’m sure I will.”

Wilson got up and threw on some clothes hastily in the dim light. He found himself wearing his own slacks and House’s t-shirt, House wearing his own jeans and Wilson’s dress shirt, leaving it unbuttoned. He laughed softly and beckoned House out of the room. He opened the door to the spare room and flipped on the light, gesturing to the piano. House stared at it for a moment before placing his hands on either side of Wilson’s face and murmuring a strangely sincere, “I love you,” and kissing him hard. Then he sat at the piano and began to play.

Chapter Text

“All that you touch
You Change.

All that you Change
Changes you.

The only lasting truth
is Change…”

-Octavia E. Butler

***

“God, why won’t you let me have a dishwasher installed in this place?” House whined, lazily drying dishes with the efficacy of a teenager hoping never to be asked to help again.

“Because, if washing dishes is a two man job, I actually have a chance in hell of getting you to help,” Wilson replied, not taking his eyes from the dinner plate he was scrubbing.

“What next? Are we going to replace the washer and dryer with a washboard and piece of string across the backyard? Start churning our own butter and raise cows named Chastity and Joy-in-Sorrow? I’ll go get my hat with the buckle on it out of storage.” Wilson just rolled his eyes.

“I’m pretty sure the Puritans thought payment for housework was sinful, so consider your ability to stand at the sink and grab my ass to your heart’s content a form of compensation. Your allowance, if you will.” House set the dish he was drying down on the rack and smacked Wilson’s ass with gusto in response, making him bounce on his heels slightly. Wilson laughed and handed over another dish. “Alright Don Giovanni, don’t spend it all in one place.”

“Jesus, you buy a house with a guy, and suddenly you’re so gay you’re making opera references? Do I need to tie you up in front of a monster truck rally with toothpicks holding your eyes open or something?” House reluctantly withdrew his hand from Wilson’s rear to dry the dish.

“You say that like you didn’t immediately understand.”

“Being able to make a diagnosis doesn’t mean I’m also suffering from the disease.” Wilson scoffed and pressed a quick kiss to House’s lips.

“Maybe not, but that sure does.” Wilson smirked as House surged towards him to keep from breaking the kiss, pressing him to the kitchen wall. “House,” Wilson mumbled, “the water’s still running.” House lifted his cane and pushed the handle on the tap into the closed position.

“Not anymore,” House said softly, pulling the tails of Wilson’s button-down out of his slacks and snaking his hand beneath, slowly mapping out Wilson’s chest with his fingers.

“Oh god, you were just looking for an excuse to get out of doing dishes!”

“Yeah maybe… and an excuse to bend you over that brand new Steinway in the den.”

“Just for that, I won’t be the one bent over tonight.” Wilson smiled slyly and grabbed House by the wrist, dragging him to the bedroom and pushing him down onto the king sized bed. Wilson dashed into the bathroom for supplies, knocking into the cup on the counter containing their toothbrushes in his hurry, the plastic handles rattling lightly against each other.

Wilson returned and tossed the items on the bedside table, sitting down on the bed. He wrapped his arms around House, just kissing him, relishing in the feeling of their lips moving together in that hypnotic, circular rhythm. Meanwhile, House set to work unbuttoning Wilson’s shirt.

As a child, Wilson had dreamed about a soulmate. And now, even though those dreams were long forgotten, they were coming true, one by one.

“Hey,” muttered House, cutting through Wilson’s near meditative kiss, “are you going to jump me? Or are you just going to sit there and daydream about us turning eighty together like a girl?”

“Shut up, you jackass,” Wilson replied, without even the slightest hint of displeasure, “If you want to get out of doing chores this easily, you have to let me take my time.” And with that, Wilson pressed House back into their bed, shifting himself on top, and kissed him again, leaning blissfully into House’s immediate return.

Their bodies rocked in tandem, shocked and melded by their own electricity, forming into a matching and complete covalent bond.

***

“…reality is made of electrons dancing. reality is made of bonds.

…the atoms that are you brush up against the atoms that are him, and the electrons that are you press into the electrons that are him, and both of them change their movement…

…the universe does not know that you are separate. the song expands to hold you both.”

-duckbunny on tumblr