Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It started out simple.

A small diet. Nothing extreme. Nothing dangerous.

Wilson told himself it was about health. Dropping a few kilos so he’d feel lighter, more energetic, sharper. The kind of changes any responsible doctor would approve of.

He wasn’t skipping meals—at least, not technically. He still ate something every time he should. Just… smaller portions, better choices. Less takeout. Fewer drive-thru coffees drowned in cream and sugar. He’d swapped greasy Chinese food for grilled chicken and steamed vegetables.

And it worked—at first.

He did feel lighter. He did feel sharper. There was a certain satisfaction in being able to button his suit jacket without it pulling across his stomach. The mirror reflected a slightly leaner jawline. It was motivating.

There was nothing wrong with losing weight, he reminded himself. He wasn’t a teenager crash-dieting for prom. He was a grown man—responsible, rational, in control.

Recently, he’d bought a new digital scale for the bathroom. He liked numbers. Numbers were facts. Facts didn’t lie.

This morning, the scale blinked up at him: 68.0 kg. A perfectly healthy number for his height. But instead of feeling proud, a small frown tugged at his mouth. He’d expected lower. Not by much. Just enough to prove the effort was paying off faster. Still, that was what the diet was for. The number would drop eventually.

Healthy was fine. Healthy was… acceptable. But it wasn’t enough.

⸻

By mid-afternoon, Wilson was buried in clinic charts when House limped into his office without knocking.

“Dinner tonight,” House announced, leaning heavily on his cane as he shut the door behind him.

Wilson glanced up over his reading glasses. “Hello to you too. I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

“I’m not asking how you are, I’m telling you to feed me.”

“Tempting offer,” Wilson said dryly, “but I was planning to—”

“—stay home, eat whatever sad vegetable thing you’ve got in your fridge, and watch PBS? No. You’re buying me dinner. I’ll even let you pick the restaurant, just so you can pretend you’re in control of your own life.”

Wilson hesitated. He hadn’t eaten out in weeks. “Fine,” he said finally. “But it’s not going to be fast food.”

House’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

“Because I’d like my arteries to last another decade.”

“That’s optimistic,” House muttered, but he didn’t argue.

That afternoon, Wilson adjusted his lunch accordingly. He picked an apple and a bottle of water from the cafeteria. A lighter lunch would make him feel less guilty about dinner.

When a nurse offered him coffee, he waved it off, surprised to find he didn’t really need it. His mind felt clear, his paperwork was done quicker than usual, and for a brief moment, he thought maybe this was what healthy was supposed to feel like.

⸻

That night, House predictably ignored Wilson’s “no fast food” rule. The place wasn’t exactly a McDonald’s—it was a sleek, upscale diner with dim lighting, leather booths, and a menu that leaned heavily toward steak.

At least it’s not a burger joint, Wilson thought.

The waiter approached, pen poised. “Are you ready to order?”

“I’ll have the medium-rare steak,” House said without hesitation. “And mashed potatoes. Extra butter. And bring bread to the table. None of that ‘per request only’ crap.”

Wilson scanned the menu again, eyes skipping over the pasta and heavier entrees until they landed on the one safe choice. “Garden salad. Dressing on the side.”

House tilted his head. “You going on a diet?” His tone carried genuine curiosity, wrapped in a thin layer of mockery.

“I want to be healthier,” Wilson replied, keeping his voice light.

“Right. Because nothing says ‘healthy’ like voluntarily eating leaves. Just don’t expect me to share when your lettuce tastes like sadness.”

Wilson smiled faintly. “I’ll manage.”

When the plates arrived, Wilson eyed his salad. It wasn’t small—plenty of greens, cherry tomatoes, cucumber slices—but next to House’s sizzling steak, it looked like garnish. Still, vegetables were low-calorie. Safe.

House cut into his steak with the focus of a surgeon, while Wilson took small, measured bites. He chewed slowly, mentally tallying up the calories: lettuce, maybe five. Tomatoes, another fifteen. Dressing… he’d have to be careful.

“You gonna finish that,” House asked between bites, “or are you conducting some kind of lettuce autopsy?”

Wilson blinked. “Huh? Oh—I’m savoring it.” He speared another piece to prove his point.

“Uh-huh.” House studied him for a second longer than usual, then went back to his steak.

Wilson told himself it was just one meal. Just one dinner out. He could make up for it tomorrow.

⸻

Later that night, after House had limped off toward his bike and Wilson was alone in his apartment, he found himself standing in the bathroom again, the glow from the scale’s display washing over his bare feet.

68.2 kg.

He stared at the number, puzzled.

It didn’t make sense—he’d eaten lighter than usual today. But weight fluctuated. That was normal.

Still, he made a mental note to be a bit more careful tomorrow. Just to keep things on track.

Chapter Text

Wilson was scrolling through websites on “How to lose weight” on his device.

A link with a clean layout and reputable-sounding name caught his attention. He tapped it and waited patiently for the loading screen to disappear. When it finally loaded, a small smile tugged at his lips.

A multicolored table appeared on the brightly lit screen, showing how many calories were in each food group and offering tips on maintaining a balanced diet while also cutting weight.

Eyes narrowing in focus, he studied the numbers, trying to absorb as much information as possible.

He bookmarked the page to review and take notes on later, already planning how he could tailor it to his new routine.

Realizing he hadn’t eaten breakfast yet, Wilson frowned slightly. Not usually a breakfast person, he still tried to grab something high in protein most mornings.

He opened the fridge. Cool air brushed his face as his eyes scanned the shelves for something light. Originally, scrambled eggs had sounded like a good idea—but after seeing the calorie estimate on the website (about 150 kcal per egg, not including oil or milk), he dismissed the idea and grabbed a protein bar instead.

Before unwrapping it, he turned it over, checking the label.
210 calories. 12g protein. 7g sugar.
Acceptable.

Satisfied, he opened the bar and took a bite. It wasn’t filling, and his stomach still grumbled faintly, but that was part of the process, right? Feeling a little hungry meant it was working.

On his way out of the apartment, he stopped to weigh himself.

Wilson stepped onto the scale, waiting for the digital numbers to settle.

67.8 kg.

He stared at the glowing numbers. They seemed to blink back at him like they were mocking his efforts.

A quiet groan escaped his lips. This wasn’t as much progress as he’d hoped for. Still—it was something.

No need to panic. He could just cut back a little more—smaller portions, smarter meals. This was manageable.

⸻

Instead of taking his car to work, he decided to run. Exercise helped with weight loss—and even though it wasn’t the fastest way to get there, it felt like a good idea.

By the time he reached the hospital, he was flushed red and out of breath, shirt clinging to his back from sweat. Luckily, he always carried a spare change of clothes.

As he headed for the showers, House suddenly appeared in the hallway.

“Did you run here?” House asked, making a quick deduction just from one glance.

Wilson nodded, too winded to speak.

“Part of your new diet regime?” House raised an eyebrow.

Another nod.

“Take a shower. You stink.” House added flatly, the usual snark in full force.

“I was going to,” Wilson muttered as he walked past him. “But someone decided to stop me for this delightful conversation.”

House followed him down the hall, footsteps light like a kid trailing behind a parent.

“If you don’t mind,” Wilson said, gesturing at the locker room, “I’m trying to shower.”

“Without me?” House replied, mock-offended.

Wilson let out a tired laugh and shook his head as he pushed the door open.

⸻

After washing off the exertion from his body, Wilson felt cleaner, lighter somehow. He toweled his hair, trying to smooth it back into his usual style. It didn’t look quite right—slightly flatter without a blow-dryer—but it would do.

He thought back to the run, estimating the effort. Based on his distance and pace, he probably burned around 280 to 320 calories. Not bad. Not amazing either, but good enough for now.

Skipping lunch might make up the rest—but no. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t do that. There were limits, and he wasn’t going to cross them. Not yet.

At the cafeteria, he queued up with his tray. House came out of nowhere, cutting in front of him like it was a completely normal thing to do.

“Don’t mind me,” House said, grabbing a sandwich and a packet of chips without missing a beat. Wilson, of course, would end up paying for both.

He picked out a salad. Light dressing. No croutons. Calories estimated: under 180.

At the table, Wilson pushed the dressing aside and began eating slowly, mentally calculating each bite. He didn’t even make it halfway through the salad before losing interest.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Are you gonna throw that out?” House asked, clearly alarmed.

“Yeah. I’m full.” Wilson replied blandly, lying through his teeth.

“Well don’t waste it—give it here.” House said, snatching the container before Wilson could even object.

After handing over his uneaten lunch, Wilson couldn’t wait to get home and step on the scale again. It was becoming a routine—one that now happened three times a day: in the morning, after work, and before bed.

Ridiculous as it was, he’d started tracking every weigh-in in his Notes app. Little fluctuations. Tiny changes.

Today had felt decent. Not perfect, but decent. Hopefully enough to show even a small difference.

If he just stuck with it—tightened things up here and there—he could make real progress.

And it wasn’t like this was hurting him.

Right?

Chapter Text

Wilson woke up later than he had intended, sunlight already creeping through the blinds. His alarm had gone off hours ago, but exhaustion had won the battle. Breakfast was already a lost cause, and he didn’t bother trying to eat. No time, he told himself quietly, though the truth was he just didn’t want to.

He told himself it was alright—one or two skipped meals wouldn’t hurt. He’d make up for it with dinner. Just keep going, he reminded himself, repeating the mantra he’d been clinging to since he started this new routine.

Before leaving the apartment, Wilson stepped on the scale like it was some kind of judge. The numbers flickered for a few seconds before settling.

67.9 kilos.

He stared at the screen, the number weighing heavier than usual in his mind. He hadn’t gained much, but it was still a gain.

A soft sigh escaped him. Maybe skipping meals was the way to go. If only it would make a difference.

⸻

The hospital felt colder than usual when he arrived. He walked into his office, the sound of House’s snarky voice immediately filling the space.

“About time. I was two seconds away from filing a missing persons report,” House teased, not even looking up from his Gameboy.

“Slept in,” Wilson mumbled, lowering himself into his chair.

“Looks more like you didn’t sleep at all.”

Wilson ignored the comment, focusing on the paperwork in front of him, but his mind was elsewhere. His hands moved mechanically as he flipped through charts and test results, but inside, his thoughts circled back to the numbers on the scale.

“Okay, okay, ignore me,” House muttered, clearly disappointed he wasn’t getting a reaction. He leaned back, eyes glued to the small screen in his hands.

Just then, Cuddy burst through the door like a whirlwind, eyes sharp and purposeful.

“House, you’re supposed to be on clinic duty. Go start your hours, or I’ll double them,” she snapped, arms crossed, cutting off any excuse before it could form.

House smirked, whistling low at Cuddy’s low-cut blouse. “Someone’s in a good mood.”

“Not your concern,” she shot back. “Move it.”

Before leaving, House glanced at Wilson.

“Meet me for lunch, okay?”

Wilson hesitated. “I’m busy. Have lunch without me.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. He was busy — busy obsessing over every calorie, every bite, every gram of food he put into his mouth. And the truth was, he hadn’t even eaten breakfast or lunch.

House shrugged, clearly not pushing further, and followed Cuddy out.

⸻

Wilson told himself he’d eat dinner. He’d skip breakfast and lunch, but dinner was necessary. That was the plan.

By afternoon, the hunger pangs were hard to ignore, a dull gnawing in his stomach that made focusing difficult. But he pushed it away. The ache was a reminder he was in control, even if it hurt.

⸻

Later that evening, Wilson managed to eat half a sandwich — crusts carefully cut off, of course — before pushing the rest aside. He saved the other half for tomorrow. Maybe.

Dinner was simple. He avoided any extras or dressings. Every bite was weighed and measured in his mind, calories counted and recorded mentally.

He felt oddly comforted lying in bed later, stomach empty but under control. The thought that he could dictate his own body — even if it meant pain — gave him a small sense of peace.

⸻

The next morning, the same routine repeated. No breakfast again.

By noon, House was waiting for him in the doorway, arms crossed, a teasing grin on his face.

“Lunch?”

Wilson shook his head, forcing a casual tone. “Not hungry yet.”

House raised an eyebrow. “Come on, Jimmy. I’ll wait till you are. You skipped lunch yesterday, remember?”

Wilson felt a flush of irritation. “Stop pestering me, House. Go bother Cuddy.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Wilson fought off the growing dizziness. It was subtle, but there — a light-headedness he tried to ignore.

If he was honest, the dry mouth and occasional blurring at the edges of his vision weren’t just dehydration. But admitting that would mean admitting he might be pushing too hard.

And that was something he wasn’t ready to face

Chapter Text

Recently, he’s been skipping meals more often—more than he intended to. More than he promised he wouldn’t.

But whatever keeps the numbers going down.

He lives off caffeine now. He’s gotten used to it bitter since he cut back on sugar—the usual three packets in his coffee now long gone.

Sure, he’s tired more often. Not as loud as he used to be. But it’s worth it. There’s satisfaction in seeing the numbers drop, happiness in how his clothes hang looser, how he has to tighten his belt more than before.

He doesn’t even realize this is unhealthy. Doesn’t notice how the hunger isn’t there anymore.

And now he’s obsessive about tracking his weight. Every meal, every bathroom break—he logs it.

67.6

67.1

66.4

Progress. Proof that this is working.

—

House knows something’s going on. Actually, he knows exactly what it is—Wilson’s new fixation with his weight. And in House’s eyes, it’s ridiculous. Wilson is already in perfect shape.

Still, he’s worried. He just doesn’t know how serious it is yet. Which is why he brought Wilson a muffin—from his favorite overpriced place. House even paid for it.

The muffin’s still warm, tucked inside a paper bag, when he hands it to Wilson—who’s busy brewing his fourth cup of coffee in the diagnostics lounge. Apparently, it tastes better here, even though it’s the exact same machine and brand as every other department.

“What’s this?” Wilson asks, instantly suspicious.

“A muffin. From that place you like,” House says casually, watching him closely.

“Thanks, but you can have it. I’m not hungry,” Wilson replies, avoiding eye contact.

“You’re never hungry. Starting to think you have a parasite.”

Wilson forces a tight smile. “Just trying to be healthy.”

“Oh, come on. I even paid for it. And I haven’t seen you eat lunch in days.”

“Fine,” Wilson mutters. He snatches the paper bag, pulls the muffin out, and takes a bite—just to shut House up.

But House isn’t satisfied until Wilson finishes the whole thing. Which, eventually, he does.

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” House says.

Wilson doesn’t respond.

—

There must’ve been over 400 calories in that muffin. He was going to eat dinner tonight. But now? Since House forced him to eat the muffin, he has no choice—he’ll have to skip dinner.

The idea of digesting that food makes him feel sick.

He overthinks the entire thing, spiraling. A solution comes to mind—an absurd one. But still, a solution.

He could just vomit it out.

But… no. Not yet. He’s not that desperate.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is going to be a huge setback.

—

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

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

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

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

“Ready to go?” House pipes up.

Wilson just rolls his eyes.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

When was the last time he had a proper meal?

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

When the check comes, Wilson pays. Obviously.

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

—

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

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

A gag. Then he hurls.

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

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

60.7 kg.

A small, quiet breath of satisfaction leaves his lips.

He quickly logs the number into his notes app.

Progress

Chapter Text

The morning rush of the hospital blurred around Wilson as he made his way down the hallway.

His vision narrowed, the edges darkening like a slow-closing shutter. He steadied himself against the wall, trying to disguise it as a casual pause.

A passing nurse shot him a concerned look. Wilson waved her off with a faint smile, forcing his posture straighter.

By the time he reached a patient’s room, the floor was tilting. The air felt too thick, each breath shallow. His knees gave way. He grabbed the edge of the bed, knuckles blanching from the grip. His head throbbed, and sweat gathered at his hairline.

“I’m fine,” he muttered under his breath.

The last thing he saw was the patient’s startled expression before everything went black.

⸻

When he woke, the first thing he registered was the stiffness of hospital sheets under his hands. The second was the stabbing brightness overhead. He winced and turned his head.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” House said from the chair beside him, elbows braced on his knees.

“How long…?” Wilson’s voice came out cracked and dry.

“About three hours,” House replied, like he’d been waiting to deliver the answer.

“Water.”

House handed him a cup, and Wilson downed it in one go, the cool liquid hitting an empty stomach hard enough to make him flinch.

“You fainted. Want to guess how?” House’s tone was casual, but his eyes didn’t leave Wilson’s face.

“Dehydration,” Wilson lied.

House made a loud buzzer sound. “Wrong. Thanks for playing.” His voice lost the joking edge. “Your blood sugar tanked. You haven’t eaten properly in days.”

Before Wilson could answer, Cuddy stepped into the room. “Are you all right?” she asked, walking over to check the monitor beside his bed.

“Y-yeah,” Wilson said, forcing a shrug. “Just stressed. Forgot to eat.”

Cuddy might have believed it—if House hadn’t spoken.

“Don’t bother, he’s been starving himself.” The words were sharp, but House’s gaze was searching, not condemning.

“I’ve just cut back a little. It was a slip, Cuddy. Discharge me,” Wilson said, trying to sound steady.

“Your labs say otherwise,” Cuddy replied, crossing her arms. “You’re hypoglycemic, mildly dehydrated, your electrolytes are off—low potassium, low iron. That’s why you passed out. And that’s not from skipping one lunch.” She straightened. “We’re keeping you here until your levels stabilize. That includes eating an actual meal.”

The thought made Wilson’s stomach knot with nausea. He kept his expression flat, calculating whether he could still talk her into letting him leave.

Chapter Text

⸻

Wilson was devastated. He’d been so close to achieving his dream body, but the dream had slowly twisted into a nightmare.

He hated this—being here, eating, lying in a hospital bed under constant watch. Already, they’d forced two full, proper meals on him. He would’ve thrown them out if House hadn’t been watching him like a hawk.

A nurse came in carrying a bread roll with a bowl of chicken noodle soup. Wilson quickly palmed the bread roll and hid it under his blanket, giving the illusion that he’d eagerly eaten it.

The nurse didn’t notice. She smiled at him warmly before jotting good progress on his chart.

As soon as she left, Wilson exhaled slowly. The bread roll went into the trash along with the untouched soup.

Moments later, Cuddy and House walked in together, both eyes fixed on him.

“We were talking about discharging you,” Cuddy began, her voice clipped, “but under certain circumstances. House and I are putting a strict routine in place for your meal plans.”

“C–come on, Cuddy, this is ridiculous. I’m fine. It was just a slip,” Wilson spluttered, unable to believe what he was hearing.

“This is for your own good, Wilson,” Cuddy said, a pitying look already in her eyes.

“And don’t think about throwing out the food or not eating the meals we give you,” House added. “We’ll know. And if you pull that, you’ll end up back here—or in the ward.”

Wilson stared, stunned. This was too far. Too extreme. There was no need for all these unnecessary measures. But he wasn’t stupid; nothing he said would change Cuddy’s mind.

So he played along—nodding at the right moments, speaking when necessary, but never telling the truth.

When they left, the room fell silent. Out of the corner of his eye, Wilson spotted a scale shoved halfway under a cabinet. He hadn’t weighed himself since the fainting episode.

Curiosity tugged at him. He crept out of bed, stepped onto the scale, and waited.

65.2 kg.

The number glared up at him. His heart sank, and his throat tightened.

He tried to look on the bright side, to find some kind of solution. And then it hit him—exercise. Of course.

He could eat all the meals House and Cuddy forced on him, but only when they were in the room. The rest of the time, he’d burn it all off.

He made a mental note to sign up for a gym membership the second he was discharged.

Chapter Text

When Wilson was finally discharged from the hospital, the first thing he did when he stepped into the apartment was rush to the scale to weigh himself.

65.6

Great. Now what he had been working toward for the past weeks was destroyed, needing to restart everything. Everything he had built up to was now gone.

The feeling of being in control was missed greatly when he was at the hospital, lying in bed hopelessly. He craved the feeling — he needed it desperately.

Controlling something gave him proof that not everything in his life was screwed up, gave him slight hope that his life wasn’t completely useless.

As he took the first step into the kitchen to get a drink, he noticed a meal on the counter with a light yellow note next to it.

The small yellow post-it read:
“1st meal without me observing you. If you don’t eat it, you lose all your privileges in the bedroom.”

Wilson let out a small chuckle — obviously from House. But the thought of eating the prepared meal had not crossed his mind once. He wouldn’t even dare touch it, even if it was low-calorie.

He took the food and tossed it in the bin, leaving it to rot with the other uneaten meals. For extra measures, he took the trash to the chute, giving the illusion he had actually eaten the meal.

House wouldn’t know, right?

He couldn’t know, or he’d wind up back in the hospital.

⸻

The light flickered above him as he entered a gym, the scent of sweat thick in the air.

He picked a gym a bit farther away to avoid the risk of bumping into anyone who might recognise him. This was his first time in this specific gym, but he was already familiar with all the machines.

He started on the stair master, then moved to the rowing machine, the rhythmic pull making his muscles burn. He increased the speed, pushing his limits.

The exhaustion washed over him, but he didn’t stop. In fact, it gave him more motivation — proof that it was working, that it was really working.

His body was on the verge of collapsing when he finally stopped. He sat down to rest, trying to pace his rapid breathing.

A smile tugged at his lips, and he let out a contented sigh. He must have burned at least 700 calories. If he kept this up, along with skipping his meals, he’d be progressing faster — faster toward having the body he wanted.

⸻

Water streamed from the shower head, filling the room with mist.

A towel was slung low around his hips. He wiped the steam from the mirror to inspect his body critically. He focused on the areas he hated most, pinching at the imagined fat on his arms and stomach, feeling both disappointment and motivation.

He weighed himself again, convinced the workout had made a difference.

65.3

There was a difference — but barely. Not enough to make him feel pleased with himself.

He reached for his phone to log the number, but the sound of the front door unlocking made him freeze. His pulse jumped.

Quickly, he shoved the scale under the bed.

By the time House stepped inside, Wilson was already walking out of the bedroom, expression carefully neutral.

House paused in the doorway, eyes flicking toward the hallway, then back to Wilson.

“You look… flushed,” he said slowly.

“Shower,” Wilson replied, too quickly.

House’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer, a spark of suspicion in his eyes, before he moved past toward the kitchen.

Wilson forced a smile, but the back of his neck prickled. House didn’t know.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

Thank God House didn’t question or seem to notice anything suspicious about Wilson’s response or body language.

Although drained, exhausted, and weary, sleep wouldn’t visit him — leaving him alone with his critical, overwhelming thoughts and the faint, occasional tick from the vintage clock resting on his bedside table. He kept tossing and turning, the bed frame squeaking with every restless shift, rumpling the sheets — not because he was ravenous, but because he still couldn’t decide whether what he’d done was clever… or just crossing a line he couldn’t take back.

If he’d managed to succeed in playing schemes on house once, there’s no logical reason House wouldn’t fall for the ploy again. He’d just need to make small adjustments and prepare different sets of well-thought answers beforehand.

Every spare moment he wasn’t using productively is every moment missed on attempting to redeem his dream image, which is why he decided to sacrifice sleep to head out for a run. This was way more important than sleep anyway.

If fatigue marked his eyes, he’d just make up the excuse that he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep, which was believable enough.

As he entered the living room,- eyes attempting to locate his runners, his gaze fell on the sight of House’s limp body - scattered on his couch, his chest rising up and down followed by heavy breaths and light snoring. He looked so peaceful, so calm - it made Wilson’s mouth twitch into a small smile.

Slipping on his found sneakers, he tiptoed towards the couch where House crashed the night before -too drunk and hungover to drive alone at midnight. Wilson picked up the dropped blanket and draped it over House.

He silently made his way to the front door, gradually twisting the doorknob- cringing from the screeching sound from the rusted door hinges.

—

His heart racing, pumping adrenaline in every step he takes, the cool air hitting his flushed face.

A beeping sound escaped from his watch, sharp and insistent, echoing through the dark chilly night, bouncing off the empty streets.

Facing downwards, his eyes fixed on the small, brightly lit screen that illuminated his face, confirming his suspicion on what it might be.

10,000 steps achieved

A wave of success’s washed over him, immediately followed by a crash of fatigue and dizziness. He dismissed it as part of the workout progressing, so he kept pushing himself to keep running until he arrived back at his apartment.

—

Wilson stumbled clumsily through the apartment door, chest heaving up and down in a steady rhythm, clothes sticking to his skin like glue. The dim light from the hallway barely cut through the shadows, but he didn’t care. The only thing he genuinely cared about were the numbers, that was the all that mattered to him… as well as House. He collapsed on the empty part on the couch for a brief moment, clutching the Fitbit on his wrist, eyes flicking to the screen one more time. Ten thousand steps, that was good- but how about if it was a bit higher? Fifteen thousand steps wouldn’t be that much of a difference.

A shiver ran down his spine, not from cold, but from the satisfaction of control. His muscles ached, his legs wobbled, but that feeling is a reminder, he was disciplined, and nothing, not even Cuddy’s and House’s strict meal plan could derail him.

House stirred on the couch, groaning and stretching, squinting his eyes open. “It’s not even 10:01 yet” House muttered groggily, still half asleep

Wilson froze, his heart pounding loudly against his rib cage, he flipped his wrists, angling the Fitbit’s light away, hoping House wouldn’t notice, and luckily he didn’t. “Just…needed the air” He said quickly.

House’s voice drifted from the couch, “Don’t tell me you wore yourself out before breakfast.”

Wilson managed to let out a shaky laugh, attempting to sound casual, masking the exhaustion that clung to him after the run. His eyes glanced over at house, sprawled lazily, and oblivious. Tonight, the numbers were his, and that small victory was enough for him to keep on moving forward.

Chapter Text

His scheme was working surprisingly well-if not better. Sure the nausea and fatigue struck him more forcefully but he had house where he wanted - well, not exactly; he wasn’t balls-deep in him- but house genuinely doesn’t suspect a thing, and hell it’s working so well, in fact, that when he’s forced to eat a proper meal, he doesn’t purge it as often anymore.

Every moment alone, his scale seems to call to him, pleading and begging, reminding him to be skinnier-and he seizes the opportunity without a second of hesitation.

Right now he was sitting at 60.7, around the same weight that ended him in the hospital for a day or two.

He’s aware that it’s completely unreasonable to go lower than that-but it felt necessary, and the thought of being under 60 brought a shrill of excitement which he couldn’t possibly ignore.

—-

Wilson was ordering prescriptions for one of his patients when Cuddy approached. With no time to get out of her sight, he accepted that he’d just have to endure whatever she was about to say.

“Wilson, I’m about to head out for lunch. Join me?” Cuddy said, which sounded more like an order than a choice.

“No thanks, I’ve already eaten,” Wilson replied without hesitation, delivering a well rehearsed lie and flashing her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Thankfully Cuddy fell for the act and left him alone.

He had to admit, he was actually nailing this, although it wasn’t something to be proud of.

His hand attempts on grabbing the prescribed pills, which had been resting on the counter for quite some while. They slipped clumsily from his grasp, spilling across the hospital floor. Bending down to pick them up made his knees crack, and standing back up nearly overwhelmed him, causing a wave of panic he desperately tried to hide. He exhaled a shaky breath, assuring himself that he’s fine.

Assuming the dizziness would eventually fade, he entered his office. The moment he lowered himself into the chair, the dizziness struck him hard. He ran his hands through his floppy bangs in frustration and in pain. He was this close to a slip up - he had to be more cautious. The fact dawned to him, realising he needed to eat if he didn’t want to collapse.

Figuring a muesli bar would do the trick, he rummaged through his cluttered desk drawers, attempting on finding the bar he kept there intentionally when he first started this diet. What a long way he came.

His hand clutched around the bar, the plastic crumpling as he tore it open. He forced himself to take a bite, he managed to have a couple more before leaving it half eaten on his desk.

There, problem fixed. Now he wasn’t on the verge of collapsing-he thought. But that was far from the truth.

—

He skipped dinner again. Skipping this many meals was surely not good for him, and it’s inevitably noticeable. His collarbones jutted out like sharp edges under his skin, his skin clutched around his rib cage easily displaying each one, cheekbones sharp enough to cast shadows, and dark circles pooled under his eyes. But to him, this was great. Every sensation fed his needs. Because it’s a reminder to keep on going and to push his body to the limits.

—

The next morning, Wilson weighed himself, a ritual by now. He stepped onto the cold, black-glass scale, watching the number rising, flickering to life.

59.5kg

He did it. He actually did it. Weeks of work has lead to this exact moment. A surge of triumph rushed throughout his starved body, sharp and dizzying, making his chest tighten with an electric exhilaration. His mouth cracked a smile, almost breaking his hollowed face.

But even as he reveled in the number, an insistent craving gnawed at him. This wasn’t enough. It never was. He needed it lower, leaner tighter. His mind raced with endless possibilities, planning out the next day, the next meal, the next workout. Each thought spun faster than the last, each more urgent than the one before.

—

At work, staff noticed his odd behavior after weeks of enduring his annoyance and being snapped at. To them, he seemed happy, and don’t get me wrong, he was happy, ecstatic even. His emotions clearly displayed on his face, no need to conceal them. It was a nice change but no on knew the reason of this sudden shift , and he intended to keep it that way. People suspected that he might be seeing someone new. No one knew the truth except him.

—

Dizziness surged through him, hands trembling from the amount of caffeine consumed, a sharp pain drummed against his skull, his vision faltered, edges dissolving. The thought on needing to consume food to stop him from fainting, but it also meant on undoing the weight he endeavoured so desperately to lose. Excuses rose up without much effort. It was probably just from dehydration, nothing major.

It struck him harder than he imagined, just as he was about to take the first steps into his office after exhilarating rounds of consults and patients, the floor was shifting beneath him as he tried to regain control of his balance, failing miserably, he collapsed to the floor, body giving up to keep him upright.

—

His eyes flutter open, taking in the sight of his office in a low angle-he was still in the same position as when his vision had darkened. Thankfully, no one had discovered him lying unconscious on the floor. He allowed himself to exhale a relieved sigh, wiping the cold sweat from his forehead.

Shaking on what just occurred, he managed to stand up but as soon as he did he felt his blood pressure rapidly plummeting. Quickly he sank into his chair at his desk, brushing of the fact he had just fainted-assuring himself it was only dehydration. He was fine.

—-

Over The next few days, the dizziness seemed to have slightly subside him-which only confirmed his assumption was correct-he was fine nothing to worry about.

He was with a patient when a familiar stinging pain followed him, the same feeling he felt before passing out, his vision gradually tunnelling, his head throbbing, his knees unable to hold his weight. The next moment, he hit the floor with a painful thud. The patient seemed to be taken back with a shock displayed on her face, as nurses rushed in to see whats had happened.

—

His breath hitches taking in the fluorescent lighting that illuminated above him from the sterile hospital room. He attempts to move his malnourished body, in response was a groan escaping from his throat. The chill of IV fluid seeping through his vein, makes him shudder at the foreign sensation.

With the palms of his hands, rubbing harshly at his tired, brown doe eyes. Through the blur, he noticed a relatively familiar figure making their way towards his direction. He squinted, attempting to make out the mysterious figure, and when the realisation struck him, he nearly chocked out a gasp.

Julie? His ex-wife. What is the hell is she doing here? He thought, his throat tightening.

When she stepped in his room, suddenly the air around him seemed to gain an eerie sense of presence.

“James” She practically hummed, drawing out his name like poison disguised as silk “Finally doing something g about the weigh you’ve been carrying.”

Wilson froze, her voice cutting through him like glass. His tongue stuck in his throat, words refusing to form, a shiver crawling down his spine.

“You look different—better. But not good enough.” Her tone purred, but her eyes were daggers. “You can do more, and you know it.”

She let her gaze drag over him, deliberate and cruel. “Look at you—pathetic. Sure, your ribs are visible, but your cheekbones aren’t sharp enough. Your stomach isn’t flat enough. And your arms—” she gasped, lips curling with disgust “—flabby. No wonder you can’t hold down a marriage.”

Wilson’s chest constricted. His eyes burned, fighting against the tears threatening to fall. He sat there in silence, her words sinking into the air like ice shards.

“Remember my words carefully, James.” She leaned closer, her voice low and venomous, before she finally turned and walked out, leaving him smaller than before.

The door clicked shut, but the echo of her voice remained.

She’s right. Goddamn it, she’s right. He hated himself for agreeing with that cold-hearted woman, but there was no escaping it. Her words weren’t just insults—they were truth. Undeniable. Inarguable

Chapter Text

Wilson stirred from the sleep that was gathered, he kept drifting on and off like a switch controlling him. He was patiently waiting for House to arrive and confront him. He already laid out all the excuses he was prepared to use.

He didn’t know what House is going to force him to do-he didn’t even want to assume.

House finally showed up, plopping himself onto the uncomfortable chair next to him.

House had finally showed up, plopping himself on the uncomfortable chair next to him.

“Are you going to keep starving yourself until death catches you?” House asked, with a serious tone hinting at his voice.

“It‘s not like that… I’ve been eating, eating the prepared meals you arranged. Maybe there’s something medically wrong” Wilson suggested, hoping that would flip House’s perspective.

Unfortunately, House sees straight through the bullshit spilling out of his mouth.

“Yea sure, since these symptoms scream Lupus” House responded sarcastically.

Wilson sighed in response clearly exhausted, hoping to abruptly end the conversation before it went a further direction.

“Look, Wilson” House’s voice turned stern, “I don’t know how you got away, skipping the planned meals but it changes now.” He locked his piercing blue gaze on Wilson, watching him squirm under the intensity.

Wilson didn’t reply, just nodded indicating that he understood and agreed.

“This is your finally chance, if you fuck it up it’s to the ward this time” House warned, unafraid to make that call.

“I won’t, I never did… I-it’s just the stress getting to me” WIlson let out, pinching the bridge of his nose to mask the excruciating pain he feels build up inside him.

House stood up from his seat, can’t seem to take any more of Wilson’s lies. Leaving WIlson all alone, spiralling himself to sleep.

—

Wilson forced himself to finish the perfectly prepped meal laid out in front of him, Every bite eaten under House’s view. He tried to ignore the number racing in his thoughts within every bite, calculating, measuring, obsessing.

“Congrats, now you’re not on the verge of collapsing’ House applauded him, trying not to illustrate on how proud he is of what Wilson accomplished. Silly as it seemed, but to House it was a huge deal. Wilson let out a weak smile in Houses direction, barely lifting the corners of his lips.

——

When Wilson finally got discharged, he instantly bounced back on work, catching up with a shit ton of missed paperwork. He can’t shake off the feeling that his secret has been spilled, nurses around him gave pitying glances his way, eyes scanning his frame from head to toe. He tried to dismiss the notion as mere delusion until he overheard snippets of a gossipy conversation between the three nurses

The young nurse spoke with a repulsed tone rather an empathetic one. “Did you hear? The head of Oncology is seriously messed up”

The other two nurses shook their heads, dumbfounded exchanging glances with each other. She continues “Apparently he starves himself.”

Wilson froze, his stomach dropping, he tried to swallow the growing lump stuck in his throat. They know. They all know. He felt his pulse spike. He could break down into tears this very moment, right here-right now. Thankfully, he managed to control himself for a bit longer to reach a private place, away from everyone who was shamelessly judging him, watching him crumble. His office was near him, so he plastered a seemingly normal expression and quickly rushed to his office. When he stepped inside the expression immediately dissolved from his face.

He flopped on the couch, rocking back and forth, hands pressed over his tear stained, flushed face. How did they find out? He knew he was being meticulous, precise, cautious… and yet, here he was, exposed.

The doorknob rattled, followed by an inevitable knock. House barged in, accompanied by his irritable voice saying something rather unjustified. “I swear if-“ House froze mid-sentence, his eyes fell on Wilson, curled up. House’s usual smirk faltered, replaced with a flicker of concern he didn’t want his friend to notice. Wilson barely acknowledged House, his mind was focusing on trying to control the broken sobs escaping from his throat. House carefully propped himself next to Wilson, unaware of the ongoing situation.

“Talk to me, What’s wrong?” For once, House voice carried no sarcasm, no sharp edge, only genuine concern.

Wilson lifted his gaze on him, bloodshot eyes stares deep into House’s icy blue orbs with an unforgiving glare, his anger spiking.

“You-You told people. T-told people on how fucked up I am, how I fucking starve myself!” Wilson snapped at House, voice cracking as he jabbed an accusing finger at House. Wilson barely let his anger flare up this high, and if it did, he’d never, in a million years, express his frustrations. He was a burden, after all.

House looked taken aback by Wilson’s reaction. “What the hell are you talking about? of-course I didn’t tell anyone” House shot back, his voice sharper then he intended, the edge covering the flicker of hurt underneath.

Wilson believed House, he never, not even for one second assumed that House would blab his secret. He just needed to shift the heavy blame of himself, needed to convince himself he didn’t fuck this up like he did with everything else. But apparently, he had screwed the one up too.

In a quieter, more hushed tone Wilson hesitantly replied. “I know,” he averted his gaze from House, not wanting his friend to see him fall apart like this.

House fixed his gaze on Wilson, his expression soft-the kind of look meant only for him.

They remained seated on Wilson’s couch. No words were exchanged from the two men. The silence between them was laced by unspoken thoughts, regrets and concern, yet at the same time, it carried a strange comfort, as if simply being near each other was enough.

“Well I need a shit ton of caffeine, you coming?” House asked in an attempt to shift the subject-knowing thats what Wilson needed. Wilson eagerly nodded, grateful for the distraction, and wiped away any remaining tears that cringed to his face.

As they were both walking toward the diagnostic department for their addictive coffee. Wilson felt familiar glances gazed upon him, but somehow it seemed he gained more confidence-maybe it had something to do with House.

“..Starves himself..” “..Pathetic..” “Julie said…”

The gossiped whispers echoed through the hallways, triggering unwelcome flashbacks of his childhood.

—

The incident happened in the middle of Highschool, he was 15 at the time. People found out that he was attracted to someone from the same gender. His name was Kyle, Wilson still remembered what his favourite movie is, what books he loves reading and what his favourite colour. He even managed to snag his first proper kiss with him and been asked out by Kyle-which younger James eagerly agreed having no idea the on what the outcome of his actions would be.

He was strolling down the hallways, making his way towards his locker and unsure if he was losing his mind or that people were chatting about him-and not in the way he’d hoped, the way that might let him blend in. His ears ringed with high pitched laughter, eyes making out the image of fingers pointed at him, expressions of disgust circles around him. His attempts on trying to make himself appear smaller to disappear and blend in with the crowd failed miserably since it drew more attention, more laughter, it was no use-he couldn’t escape.

Several voices commented on him, cutting sharper than knives,
“…Faggot…” “Jimmy’s a fairy..” “No one would like you at your size..”

Out of the variety of voices, he could only interpret one of them with certainty. Apparently it had all been a a dare, it was all a sick, twisted scheme,-and he had fallen for it, hard. Obviously it was a dare who would actually want to date? Who even likes him? He felt painfully gullible, painfully stupid.

When he arrived home, he rushed to his room and he ended up crying and sobbing until there was no tears left to fall. Someone had finally seemed to care about him but it was an act, he didn’t deserve it anyway.

—

The colour drained from his face upon hearing the last statement said, anger surges through him which quickly twisted into fear. What else did Julie say?

House noticed Wilson’s concern and leaned closer, voice low., “Curiosity gets the best of us. Give it a few hours-people will move on to something else,” He whispered, trying to soothe him.

Wilson let out a weak smile, acknowledging House;s efforts on trying to make Wilson feel better. But right now he’s more worried than ever. Not about Julie would herself-but on what information she’ll spread about him, each imagined rumour twisting tighter inside him.

House noticed that his words didn’t seem to affect WIlson. The younger man pressed against the wall, tensed. House grinned, knowing he had to escalate the situation.

“Seriously, people, get a load of this,” House shouted, spinning dramatically on his heel to face the crowd of nurses. “I’m about to confess to a decade-long crush on… well, literally everyone in this hospital. Nurses, interns, even the janitor down in the basement. I’m a full-on, hopeless homosexual mess!”

Gasps and murmurs filled the hall. A few nurses covered their mouths-trying to hide the fact that they were blushing, while others raised their eyebrows in disbelief.

Wilson blinked, caught of guard by the sudden confession. Relief washed over him, the whispers about him evaporated like smoke.

“Wow, I see you like everyone even me?” Wilson say, his voice mock sweet, tilting his head slightly, “You’ve had a crush on me this whole time?”

House glanced at him, a mischievous glint sparkle led in his eyes, motuh raising to a knowing smile. “Obviously, don’t let it go to your head.”

Wilson chuckled, enjoying the ridiculousness of the moment.

Chapter Text

It seemed like the impossible had come Wilson was finally improving eating, and not just nibbling at scraps of food, but eating full meals. Well, thats what it registered as in Houses eyes-a bunch of lies and desperate attempts from Wilson for House to get off his back…which, of course, was true.

Wilson somehow fully convinced House that he didn’t purge all food consumed after he left. Flashing a smile of his white teeth as solid evidence to support his false statement. Anyway, it was easy to maintain with teeth whitening strips. He also chews on two tums to neutralise stomach acid. The feeling of being in control led him to feel powerful and unstoppable, he couldn’t possibly pick up the habit of eating again. Some people eat as a pleasurable activity, while he eats to stay alive, not die. He desperately needed to not eat. He. Must. Not. Eat. End of conversation.

He was careful, avoiding any slip-ups that came his way. Dangerously cautious. He almost went a whole week restricting if it wasn’t for House growing suspicious and forcing him to eat something—or else he’d make sure Wilson couldn’t ignore him.

The hunger in his stomach only deepened, but the empty pit inside motivates him to keep on going. To avoid his stomach rumbling, greedy for food, he chugs down some water and pops sugar-free gum in his mouth. He didn’t deserve food, he feels so disgustingly, horribly fat. Right now, he was alone, alone with a device that could tell him, scream to him his failures and measure his sins…a scale. He couldn’t check his weight this morning and it’s been gnawing him since. His feet dragged beneath him as he stepped onto the scale. A few days ago, he was 60.5kg, that number would have comforted the old Wilson, but the new Wilson knows it’s not enough. He opened his heavy eye lids induced by the lack of sleep, unprepared by the number he was about to see.

59.7kg. He is officially standing on goal number one. If House found out, he’d bodyslam Wilson into treatment in the ward. There would be consequences and repercussions, because once again he broke the rules about the perfect oncologist, James Wilson.

Goal number two was 55.00 kg. The perfect balance, where he could stay in control without anyone noticing. At 55.00 kg he would be light enough to move freely, strong enough to hold himself together, and careful enough to fool everyone around him. Goal number three was 50.00 kg, and he would do whatever it took to reach it. But he knew even that wouldn’t satisfy him. At 50.00 he would already be imagining 45.00. At 10.00 he would crave 5.00. The only number that would ever feel complete, final, right, was zero. Zero kilos. Zero weight, zero presence, size zero, double zero, zero point. Zero in tennis is love. He finally gets it.

——

House had his suspicions over Wilson. It appeared that Wilson’s trip to the bathroom extended over times, happening more often aswell. And everything seemed to be too perfect, too in place, everything came across as staged, no bumps and blips in his so-called recovery, and this is Wilson we’re talking about.

The two grown men sat across each other from the white cafeteria table, both having food resting in front of them. Both of their plates appeared to have the same amount of food, House’s plate had more, obviously. It’s almost as if Wilson is trying to con House, but, believe it or not Wilson was eating, no snark comments needed.

—

Seeing his full plate in front of him is enough for him to hurl, and the thought of consuming it churns his gut. Unfortunately for him, he had no other choice but to force himself to eat it, if only to keep House’s suspicions from rising.

After taking enough to fool House bites off his plate, he excused himself, sliding his half-eaten meal in House’s direction. He fled to the restroom, steps rapidly increasing. He pushed open the first stall he came across, locked the door, and dropped to his knees, facing the unsanitary toilet. Keys loudly jingled in his pocket, hands trying to locate a familiar bottle, and when founded he firmly gripped the small bottle, clutching tightly to not slip out of his grasp.

The bottle of ipecac syrup rolls gently in his palms. His fingers fumbles to open the bottle, struggling with the child-lock cap. The bottle popped open, syrup oozing from the cap. He slowly raised the bottle to his mouth, the bottle dripping onto his tongue. He tilted the bottle, so more sticky liquid came out than swallowed, vomit quickly emerged from his throat. He hurled again a second round of vomit burns his sore throat, eyes red and glistening with tears from the sensation. He rested his eyes, desperate for a moment of silence until he heard a familiar thump of a cane, jolting him back to reality. He swallowed hard, forcing back any sound threatening to escape his throat.

The repetitive thump of the cane came to a sudden halt, instead it was replaced by a knocking sound caused by the cane, the bathroom stall door vibrated from such force. Wilson froze, unsure on what decision to chose from. Should he open the door and pay it off nonchalantly or pretend he wasn’t there? Beads of cold sweat began forming on his forehead, his pulse pounded so loudly in his ears he almost couldn’t hear the second, harder strike of the cane against the door. The stall walls felt like they were closing in, suffocating him with the certainty that he was trapped.

When no response came from the other side, House decided to take matters in his own hands. “Wilson, I know you're in there, open up” House raised his voice leaning against the unstable door.

“I’m…taking a huge shit right now.” Wilson announced nervously still laying on the cold floor having no energy to stand up. He was praying, hoping that would convince House so he can have a moment of peace.

“If you don’t open the door, I will break it down” House warned, Wilson knew House well enough to know he wasn’t kidding. He let out a shaky sigh before on getting up and flushing the vomit, wiped the corners of his mouth with his sleeve. He unlocked the door bracing himself on whatever sick comment House is about to say.

“See I’m perfectly fine, I just had to-” Wilson started then trailed off after noticing that House wasn’t paying attention. Instead, House’s eyes were wide, his jaw tight, and his expression in alarmed rather than disbelief. Whatever House had noticed, it wasn’t good.

“Wilson…” House said softly, he held his gaze onto Wilson finally paying attention to him. In that moment, his heart felt like someone dropped an anvil on it, shattering into a million fragments as the truth hit him like a punch. Wilson’s turned behind him, confusion and fear written all over his face, he had no clue on what House noticed.

“W-what’s going o-” Wilson asked then instantly froze in place, his face dropped all colour, his gut twisted into knots that couldn’t be undone, his ears turned bright red, heart thumping rapidly against his ribcage. His gaze focusing on what lies on the white tiled floor.

The bottle of ipecac.

“H-House it’s not what you think…i-its for a patient, please trust me," Wilson pleaded in desperation, voice breaking into uncontrollable sobs, his entire body shaking as he breaks down in front of House.

“You know what this means, Wilson” House said, voice sharp. “This isn’t about some patient. This is about you. Skipping meals, hiding your eating, throwing up…” His words hammered down with precision, each one a painful truth.

“I…I can explain-” Wilson tried again, but his voice cracked, words drowning in his sobs.

“No,” House snapped, stepping closer. “Don’t. Just stop lying tot me. If you actually ate something instead of starving yourself, maybe your brain would work instead of running on empty and panic.”

Wilson’s tears fell freely now, dripping onto the floor. “I-I’m trying, House!” He cried, voice desperate.

“You’re not trying, you don’t even want to get better!” House snapped at Wilson. In response was silent, deep down Wilson knew House was right he didn’t want to get better. All Wilson genuinely wanted is to be skinnier, thinner, fitter. His chest tightened, and for the first time, he let himself truly feel the weight of being caught.

The door clicked shut behind House when he finally left, leaving Wilson alone with the echos of his own choices-and the realisation that nothing would ever be the same.

Chapter Text

Wilson’s limp body was lying helplessly on the coach; his chest rose and fell in shallow uneven breaths. His eyes-stained red from endlessly crying his soul out. When he first broke into a fit of angry tears, weeks of emotion finally burst free. He cried and cried until there was no tears left to shed. He turned his head to the side, he squinted at the clock, the numbers slowly shaping to life. It was around this time that he would get dressed in his dress shirt and pants then arrive to work. He must’ve been sulking on the couch for hours, but to him it only felt like a few minutes. He curled up on the couch, an electric blanket draped over him as his teeth chatter from the constant feeling of being cold. He decided to not go to work today, after all there really was no point in trying to focus when all he can hear are hushed whispers coming from each corner about his ghostly appearance.

Guilt in him slowly builds over the hours for not calling in sick, the cancer kids will die if he doesn’t come in. He rubbed at his temples, trying to shake off the thought, but it only dug deeper. Logically he knew that his team could handle emergencies, but logic didn’t ease the gnawing in his mind. Incriminating thoughts drown in his head. Lazy/stupid/Slob/. Each word landing heavier then the last.

The door knob behind him twisted, the creak of the rusted hinges echoed throughout the confined room. There was only one person that he knows might check up on him, keyword might. Hearing the steady repetitive thump of a cane approved his assumption.

“You weren’t at work today, normally I wouldn’t care but…” House’s voice trailed as he stepped inside the unusually warm apartment.

“Really? I haven’t noticed, thanks for pointing it out.” Wilson snapped his gaze intensely focused on the blank white space on the wall. After letting those words sink in, Wilson muttered. “I’m sick I can take the day off and rest.” His voice wavered with irritation and exhausted.

“You’re sick because you haven’t eaten a real meal in weeks!” House spat coldly. “You're destroying yourself in all ways possible Wilson, you need help.”

Wilson’s shoulders stiffened, his jaw tensed but he still kept his eyes locked in the wall. His throat burned and hearing House’s voice spit out those words cut deeper than he wanted to admit.

“Stop it,” Wilson muttered, voice tight.

“Stop what?” House shot back, talking a step closer to Wilson’s direction. “Stop pointing out the obvious? Stop pretending you’re fine while you-“

“I said stop!” Wilson exploded, his voice breaking, he turned his head to face House’s cold stare. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing to myself? You think I don’t hear it every second of every fucking day?”

House’s brow furrowed, he opened his mouth to fire something back at him but nothing escaped.

Wilson’s chest rose and fell in short breaths, he let out a strangled bitter laugh, “You don’t get it House, I don’t need help-I don’t want it. Can’t you see that I’m happy like this? I don’t want to change I need to become thinner!” He angrily blurted out. House’s expression screamed in disbelief.

“Pay attention, Wilson. This isn’t a debate. You’re seeing a shrink and you’re getting help. End of discussion.”

“That’s not happening,” Wilson responded stubbornly.
“Oh, it’s happening or else I’ll go spill everything to Cuddy and get your medical licence revoked”

“Y-you can’t do that! That’s blackmail!!” Wilson’s anger increased, hands exaggerated in the dense air between them. He would never admit it but he felt hurt seeing House betray this way.

“Try me,” House’s voice stern and steady, one look in his eyes and Wilson knows he’s dead serious, no bluffs only the cold truth.

“So that’s it, you’re taking the only things that actually work out for me and ruin them just so it will fit in your twisted fucked up fantasy?!” Hot, angry tears streamed against his face, his sleeve drenched in tears from consistently wiping away the tears that runs down his face. He tried to swallow down the growing lump appearing in his throat, but it felt like sandpaper scraping against his throat.

“This is not for me. I’m doing this for you, because I care for you! Goddamn Wilson, I love you and I don’t want to see you destroying yourself!”

Wilson let out an audible gasp, or maybe a breathy laugh, he isn’t sure anymore. “You don’t care about me, and you certainly don’t love me, all you’re going to do is fatten me up and then leave me afterwards-all alone”

“Believe what you want to believe is real, Wilson” House replied firmly “But I spoke the truth” And with that House left, he left like everyone else would have in the end.

Wilson blinked dumbfounded at him, his mouth slightly opened to respond but no words were spoken. House’s words dug deep into his mind-but he couldn’t let himself believe it. Even though he desperately craved his words to be truthful, but he knew better than that-no one could ever love him, look at him in a way that their world stopped-not until he was skinny enough.

—

The next day when House visited Wilson’s place (Again), leaving him with no privacy as always, something was off, House seemed too out of it. He wasn’t his sarcastic loud self, he was quiet, too quiet, and slow with his replies. Wilson noticed House drifting on and off into the chair, eyes unfocused on his reflection looking back at him fro an unclean glass. There were no tears visible, but it was noticeable by his red nose that House broke down privately and shed tears over a dead patient.

Wilson’s heart ached, deep anguish washed through him on the sight of House’s broken self, he suddenly forgiven him for yesterday, and stupidly decided to switch the roles to take care of House. He slowly stepped forwards into the kitchen, obvious confusion sprawled over House’s face, he looked around off balanced because Wilson wasn’t following the script. He shakily handed the full glass of orange juice over to House who hesitantly accepted it, as he sips it, Wilson cracks open two large eggs and turned on the stove under a frying pan that hasn’t been used in months.

Every step in the kitchen is a test that challenges Wilson’s hunger for food. He repeats the same words in his mind with every step he takes, I am strong enough to pick up a stick of butter, I am strong enough to peel the wrapper of the butter. He runs his hands over burning hot water that would surely give him a first degree burn if he kept it emerged in the water any longer, but he didn’t care about his health in that moment he just had to wash and scrub away any of the greasy smear before he shoves his fingers in his mouth to taste it. Right now, he is passing all the tests with flying colours.

House studies the thinly chopped vegetables on the wooden chopping board. Wilson pours House’s coffee into a china cup and offered it to him, after House took a sip he placed it aside on the table, it was how House liked his coffee, black with no sugar.

The dense silence drowned in the air, Wilson’s word cutting through it by asking obvious questions, “Who was it?” He finally asked, while violently whisking the life out of the eggs.

House looked up at him, his sparkling blue eyes fighting back tears. “Who was who?” He replied obliviously.

“Which patient died?” He slowly poured the eggs onto the saucepan, the sizzling sounds of the frying egg fills the air, a few specks of butter lands on his arms and burn him.

“Teenager” House muttered under his breath. “Lupus. Actual Lupus spent weeks chasing after stray ends, until her kidney gave out. By the time I called it dialysis was to late.”

As House was explaining in detail on how his patient died a long and excruciating death blaming it all on himself, Wilson laid some pieces of chopped spinach over the omelet, sprinkled grated cheese on top, fold it over and slid it over to House. “You couldn’t have known-”

“Doesn’t matter, I was to late. Saying that I couldn’t have known isn’t going to change anything, she’s still dead.” House took a bite even though it just came out of the scorching sizzling pan. “This tastes pretty good, you better make one for yourself.” He eats automatically, the same number of chews per bite, the same number of seconds between swallows until the omelette is completely gone.

They're not yelling at each other; they weren’t looking for the sharpest knives in the drawer to stab each other with words. This is good, Wilson just needs to keep up the act. Wilson picked up the dirty plate then placed it in the crowded sink.

“Are you going to make one for yourself?” House asked again, irritation lacing his tone.

“I’m not hungry.” Wilson said quickly, his voice subdued. That was a lie he was starving, he wants to eat sugary muffins, rolled in butter and honey, then some ice cream and crackers and a jar of frosting and 2 bags of buttery popcorn, but he can’t let his craving for food poison his thoughts with disgusting needs like consuming food.

“ What did you have for lunch?” House questioned already knowing the answer.

“I haven’t eaten lunch yet.”

“It’s almost two, eat something”

“I don’t want to” He protested, voice slipping into a childlike tone.

“Eat eggs, you could use the protein”

“I had milk in my cereal this morning.”

“You need to eat.” The voice is back to giving orders again, demanding obedience.

“House-”

A high frequency sound buzzed from House’s beeper, “Dammit” He curses before on making the call. Saved by the bell, Wilson thought after letting out a sigh of relief.

Wilson started cleaning the mess made in the kitchen, he gently placed the frying pan in the cluttered sink.

Familiar voices swarmed around his insides and multiplied leaving him feeling charred, tiny echos of voices-that made a permanent home. Stupid/Ugly/Stupid/Fat/Stupid/Loser.

“James, look at me!” House shouts, violently shaking his shoulders until he snaps back into reality.

He blinked, startled by House. House guided him to a chair, one arm around him to keep him steady, and another roaming his neck-attempting to take his pulse.

“I bet your blood sugar is down the drain.” House muttered to himself. He lost around ten to fifteen minutes. House handed him a glass orange juice, so full it threatened to spill over the rim.

“Drink this.” He demanded. Wilson thought of declining his offer but there’s a good chance that House will wrestle him to the floor, force his mouth open and pour it in him. The old wilson could easily overpower him because of his disadvantage of a bum leg, but the new Wilson is too weak to even try and just accepted his defeat.

Wilson hesitantly accepted the orange juice, he gulped it down like water, compressing it into his empty stomach. He felt the orange juice inject itself into his body, like poison running through his veins. House sits up straight in-front of him, staring at him until he finished every last drop of the juice.

“I’m okay” Wilson uneasily said, attempting to stand up but felt a wave of dizziness hit him as he stood up so he plopped himself onto the couch again-flattening out the cushions, in order to not faint. Instead of answering Wilson, House gets up, slams a clean frying pan onto the stove, takes out eggs and milk, cracks two eggs open over a bowl-fragments of eggshells falling in-, and violently beats it with a fork.

“I’m not eating that.” Wilson says stubbornly, brow furrowed with worry. No response, just the screeching sound of the fork colliding with the bowl.

“You aren’t supposed to force me, I have to feel safe with food.” Wilson argued.

“That’s the dumbest thing I have ever heard.”

The orange juice he consumed earlier is a virus attacking his insides. “Forget it House, I’m not eating.”

House shakes his head in disapproval, “You're not thinking clearly, your dizzy and you lied to me about breakfast.”

“Ok, so I forgot breakfast. It’s been a rough day.”

“You’re going to eat and consume everything on the plate; I don’t want to see anything left.”

Horror displayed on Wilson’s face, his gut twisting into knots just thinking of eating. 2 eggs+Milk+Butter=365 calories=nightmare Wilson swallows down the growing lump forming in his throat. “I’ll try”

He shoved the eggs around with his fork, he took a nibble of yellow and greese and forces himself to swallow it down, then he places the fork down on the table. “I feel sick, I can’t do this.”

“You ARE sick. When you eat like a normal person, you’ll feel better.”

“Eating makes me feel worse.”

What was he thinking? Cooking for House to make him feel better about him killing his patient. House watches him chew and swallow. He then pushes his plate away from him like a child.

“I can’t” Wilson tries again, pleading desperately, this time his voice is barely audible.

“You have to”

Slowly and painfully, Wilson picks up the fork again, and starts nibbling on small pieces of egg. It took an hour to finish it. Scrambled eggs=25 bites. It takes him everything to not heave. If House wasn’t here, he would’ve rushed to the toilet, stick his fingers so far down his throat to hurl up every last bite of food consumed and all the guilt he felt. But unfortunately, House’s sharp blue eyes are pinned at him, leaving him stuck with no escape, needing to face the overwhelming guilt that is consuming him.

Chapter Text

Sunlight spilled out from the shut drapes, streaks of golden sun rays appeared on the shared bed. Faint high pitch chirps can be heard from birds with angelic voices, writing down that morning arrived. The rustic clock that was gifted to him by a cancer patient and now rests on his bedside table-suddenly vibrated, a loud piercing ringing sound escaping from the vintage clock. Wilson let out an irritated groan while clasping his hands over his eyes to block out the brightness of the sun. By instinct, his hand lazily reached out to silence the alarm hoping for a few minutes of sleep he so desperately needed, but after a few minutes passed he was already fully awake. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his calloused hands before on sitting up carefully to not wake up the sleeping figure next to him.

House was peacefully sleeping next to him; his chest softly rose and fell with each breath in a steady rhythm; a faint light snore can be heard escaping from the older man. House’s entire body language and expression radiated tranquility and the sudden urge to explore his body came naturally to Wilson, to trace every individual lock of curl in his hair, to feel his pulse thrumming against Wilson’s hand, to kiss his chapped lips and close the unnecessary gap that separates them. He had no desire to listen to any yelling, to any aggressiveness that is directed towards both of them, didn’t yearn House ranting on and on about needing food when all he really needed was peace.

The main reason House slept over at Wilson’s place was to ensure that Wilson visits the shrink that House arranged and carefully handpicked for him. House even went to long lengths and called ahead to inform the handpicked psychologist about matters concerning House and severely affecting Wilson, because he knew that any of the issues wouldn’t be brought up by Wilson in a million years. The other unimportant reason was that he enjoyed Wilson’s company, and with Wilson being a people pleaser and coddling over his leg he offered House the bed planning on sleeping on the uncomfortable couch. Somehow, by the end of the night Wilson found himself curling himself at the edge of the bed- And that’s how they end up sharing the bed.

Slowly, Wilson hoisted himself out of bed, the rusted springs creaked in response. House let out a guttural groan.

“M’where, are you going?” House groggily muttered, his voice rough and hoarse, starling blue eyes fluttered open.

“No where…just go back to sleep.” He shushed him, desperately praying and hoping he falls back asleep into his unconscious state and not recalling on the events of taking him to visit a psychologist.

“Don’t think that I have forgotten your therapy date.” House wearily muttered, clearly too exhausted to have this conversation in the early morning.

“I have work so unfortunately I’m not able to go”

“Nice try, I called you in sick today, so you have nothing to do other than go to the goddamn appointment.”

“Dammit” Wilson silently cursed under his breath; there’s not a lot of believable excuses to dip out from the appointment, and if there was his mind was completely blank to think of any of them. House noticed Wilson tense up overthinking the sticky situation he put himself, House softens his gaze—eyes locking onto Wilson’s.

“Relax,” House muttered, voice hoarse with morning fatigue. “You’re acting like I’m sending you to rehab or a firing squad”

Wilson let out a shaky exhale through his nose attempting to not be irritated. “You might as well be,” he murmured, gazing down and fiddling with his hands to avoid the harsh stare radiating from House. “It’s not…” A frown appeared on his face as he slightly paused—hesitant if he should continue his sentence. “It’s not something I need.”

House tilted his head in confusion, observing him like a patient refusing treatment that can save their life. “Yeah, because you’ve been doing so well on your own.” He responded dryly. “Forgive me for thinking a professional might have better results other than denial and coffee”

As a substitute of arguing back to House—Wilson shot him a weary expression that seemed to be permanently plastered on his face recently. Heavy lidded eyes, dark shadowed eye-bags, facial muscles tense in all the wrong places as if he were being mentally and physically torn apart.

Instead of taking the very obvious hint to drop the draining conversation. House reminded him flatly, “You do know that if you're not going, I’ll tell Cuddy.” Wilson shut his eyes tightly—skin crinkling on the edges and raised his hands to the side signalling defeat.

“I get it, House, I’ll go” He snapped; getting dressed to appear somewhat ‘normal’ but nothing can disguise the permanent dark lines that found a home under his dead tired eyes, nothing could hide the way his clothes slung loosely around him, nothing could conceal the way his skin clutched tightly onto his bones.

He’s not visiting a shrink for himself—God knows how opening up and allowing a stranger to access all his thoughts will help him overcome his disorder. It would definitely lead him towards some type of institution for fucked up people if they could hear the thoughts circling around him and living relentlessly in his head.

—

When he arrived, he was awfully calm about it, already rehearsing the lines he’ll abuse throughout the session. The room was what he expected it to be, flooded with warm neutral colours, a seemingly comfortable couch placed in the middle crowded with throw pillows. The couch faced a wall of books from floor to ceiling. Each book was filled with crap, none of them worth reading. The fulled pages of words might as-well be mathematical equations marching to their logical conclusions.

“Dr. Wilson, please have a seat.” The pale woman in-front of him urges him to sit down while kindly welcoming him into her office—flashing him an unnecessary smile, her bun moving in place as she walks to her seat, popping a cherry flavoured cough drop in her mouth.

“Just Wilson is fine.” He said sharply, feeling uncomfortable in the enclosed environment.

“I’m Dr. Susan Adler,” She warmly introduced herself to him. He carefully propped himself onto the couch, taking a seat to face her. Dr Adler isn’t a doctor; she’s an accountant greedy for checks to fly in her inbox, indifferent to all the people who beg her to solve their problems.

“So, Wilson, what brings you here?” She innocently questioned, acting oblivious to all the information she sneakily received by House.

“House—My friend, is worried about me, but it's just him over-exaggerating. I’m fine, just under a bit of stress lately—but isn’t everyone?” He forced a small chuckle at the end, speaking with cautious confidence. Adler just nodded, that ridiculous high bun bobbing up and down with her.

“What stresses you out?” She asks, a leg crossed over another, quietly jotting down a couple of useless inquires of him on her cream lined paper notebook that secretly left him uneasy.
“My job” He shot back instantly, answering her with short one ended sentence hoping there will not be tons of follow up questions.

“Why does your job stress you out?” She questioned. He had to resist the urge to exhale an annoyed sigh and roll his eyes so far back that it might get stuck.

“I’m an oncologist, stress is part of the package.” He shrugged the question off, trying his best to not be pissed that she’s proceeding to plan an elaborate scheme to booby trap his brain without permission so that every time he expressed a thought that popped up in his mind it will soon be followed by the annoying question from hell—‘Why do you think that?’

“You’ve been an oncologist for years, so I assume you’ve learned to handle the stress—so why does it sound like you haven’t?”

“Some months are worse than others,” He uttered irritably, mouth pressed into a thin line.

“What makes these months any different?” She asked gently. A beat of silence stretched between the two, and in that moment Wilsons attempt to pinpoint a careful and safe answer—so Adler won’t endeavour her research yo did forget. Unfortunately, what words had left his stupid mouth was playing the opposite effect.

“I’m just tired, —I haven’t been sleeping well, I feel-” He paused ever so slightly, the twisted words stuck on his tongue threatening to make an appearance until he thinks for a more sensible and shielded answer. “Drained…” He finally said it, spitting the words out. It was true that he felt drained, exhausted, stupid, lazy, fat, worthless, forgettable. She nods as if understanding how his fractured psyche preserves the corrupted thoughts running through his head.

“Do you ever feel numb?” She asked. He quickly shot her down by shaking his head—disagreeing with her statement. It was a lie, obviously, all he could ever feel was the dull ache humming through every part of him.

After a few moments of complete silence, she questions him again, interrogating him. “Why do you feel drained?”

“I don’t know” He said abruptly, as if ending the topic. His voice trembled and shook with uneasiness on where this conversation is heading. She waits for him to fill out the air and elaborate more with pointless words, but only silence was responded.

His brown doe-like eyes shuffle around the room awkwardly, attempting to avoid her performed sympathetic stare, who she undoubtedly gives to every person who steps into this very room. His gaze fell on the bookshelf, focusing the titles of the award winning novels blurring at the edges.

Ten minutes have gone by without a word being passed around to one another. To him it felt like endless hours sitting in the uncomfortable dense air, hearing her every few seconds or so inhaling and exhaling deep breaths. As the couch warms up beneath him, he sinks deeper into the decorative cushion, the couch creaks with every slight movements. His fingers fiddled with the faux fur of one of the pillows—attempting to pluck out each individual fur.

“Talk to me about eating.” She finally asked. That earned her eye contact, a small reaction confirming her suspicions. Wilson’s stomach flipped.

“There’s not much to talk about,” he muttered, looking away again.

Adler said nothing, just watched him—observed him. His fingers continue to fidget, searching for something, anything stable to hold on to. He wanted her to believe he was fine, that everything was fine. But the word fine tasted like ash in his mouth.

Adler closed her notebook with a quiet thud that echoed throughout the suffocating air. “We‘ll stop here for today,” She said softly. Wilson nodded, flashed her a practiced smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He quickly stood up, muttered a polite thank you and fled before she could question his about anything else. Outside her office he exhaled a shaky breath, finally breathing in fresh air he never really appreciated before. Convincing her has been easy. Convincing himself was the part that never seemed to last.

Chapter Text

It hasn’t been to anyone’s surprise that Wilson hasn’t been eating any proper meals in several days. He’s appearance transformed him into something deeply malnourished. The hunger that once gave him satisfaction became a numb feeling, the number of pathetic excuses, such as consults, given from skipped meals only seem to increase.

The only person he’s fooling is himself, everyone else seemed to not care, or have given up on saving him. All the energy he once felt had all been drained out of his overworked system, not even the daily dose of caffeine had affected him. The thermostat is cranked up to the highest point, but it still isn’t warm enough to feel anything. He lays on the same position all morning with a heavy weighted blanket, nothing to keep him occupied, nothing to let him escape from his trapped thoughts. He hoped the medical journal conveniently placed in-front of him will suck him out of his endless spiral, but the journal was left unread, he gave up on reading it hours ago after realising he’s been rereading the same paragraph repeatedly, never reaching for the end. His focus seemed to split up continuously, sudden small bursts of sharp focus come to visit then in response his vision blearing, unable to continue.

The apartment was coloured orange from the brightly lit illuminate streetlights that spill out of his semi closed floral curtains. The blaring car horns pierces the air, agitated drivers with their patience wearing thin for endless traffic to end. It led him to an excruciatingly painful pounding headache that worsens with every moment and sound.

“Your fine…Just need some sleep” He tiredly muttered to himself, his eye lids becoming to heavy to open, he quits trying to fight back and finally let himself to rest.

When his eyes lazily fluttered opened, he instantly registered that something was off. The apartment vanished from all colours leaving it dull, the cozy light that took over and drowned his apartment now becomes non existent. The low consistent hum of the fridge disappeared—rotting the already spoilt food. Sudden wisps of chill winds that slipped out of windows he had no memory of opening left him in shambles. The air was crispy, the cold sinking its teeth in his pale skin. The atmosphere gained an unnatural, eerie presence.

“James” A soft, gentle—almost empathetic, feminine voice called out for him. He instantly turned around, attempting to locate where the voice is coming from. He spots a woman with long defined legs overlapping each other, short blonde blunt hair rests on her shoulders—her hair glimmered from a non-existent light, starling blue eyes leer on him.

“James…” She repeated herself. There’s no mistaking that Amber, his one true romantic lover (apart from House), is sitting on his couch—in-front of him. ‘Nononono’ hysterical thoughts swarmed relentlessly through his messed-up mind, he endeavoured to convince himself that it was just his brain playing silly schemes as punishment for mistreating his body. His stomach twisted in multiple tangled knots, his hand shook vigorously, balance that once was keeping him upright leaves him unsteady. He was so stupefied that he forgot to breathe.

As he panics, Amber’s expression has not once changed, her head slightly tilted to her right side—just like she always does when she’s amused and intrigued by something. He blinks once, twice, but every time he forced his eyes to re-open, she’s still there, in the same position, exactly as before.

“You're not real…” His voice cracked, words forced to persuade himself that he wasn’t going insane.

Ambers smile tightened at the edges, “Maybe not, but you see me, don’t you?”

He tried to speak his mind, but the words were so far shoved down in his throat, they were stuck and unable to escape. He averted his gaze, forcing himself to focus on anything else. His hand trembled with pure exhaustion, needing her to disappear—to exit his subconscious, but she’ stubborn on leaving. His eyes squeezed shut, trying to block out light from the immense glow she’s carrying. A familiar rough wave of nausea suddenly slapped him, his fingers shakily reached out to his temples applying pressure hoping it would relieve the queasiness blooming inside him.

Hallucinations. Fatigue. Low blood sugar. He knew the list by heart; it’s concerning the number of times he rehearsed to execute scripts to patients, “You’re over worked,” “Malnourished” “Unrested”. The irony would’ve been funny if he didn’t feel like collapsing all the time.

He slowly stood up paying his hands as support, the world aggressively tilting beneath him. He walked at a slow pace towards the kitchen, clutching anything in his way to bear his unsteadiness. He should eat something, he needs to eat something—anything. But his brain doesn’t want to, his mouth doesn’t want to the only part of him quietly calling for food is his body, but that’s easy to ignore.

Although he desperately wants to disregard any signs of distraught and exhaustion, he had to eat something to keep him from collapsing anonymously in his apartment, but still the very thought of even a grain of food landing on his tongue is enough to make him feel worthless and stick his fingers so far down his throat to make him puke out all his organs.

His hands shakily reached out to open the fridge door that hadn’t been opened in ages. It took most of his strength to unlock the fridge, and as soon as it opened, the cool air instantly bit his face which caused him to shiver. The barely filled shelves contained nothing other than dust and damaged food resembling spoilt milk, a soft bruised apple, and old takeout he didn’t even lay a finger on. He slammed the fridge door, exhaling a sigh of twisted relief acknowledging the fact of not being able to eat since there are no foods that are still sound to consume. The cold fridge door and his slumped back connected, he inhaled and exhaled deep breaths, attempting to stabilise his trembling breath.

Behind him, a faint passive aggressive voice startled him, she spoke in whispers. “Why are you still doing this?”

Wilson didn’t turn around this time, he didn’t have to—he heard her voice loud and clear. Heard Amber’s voice for the first time in more than five months, the voice he so desperately wanted to hear one last time…but not like this, when she’s belittling him, convincing him that he’s not worth saving.

“You look awful James” she said bluntly, no hint of compassion. “For god's sake you can’t even stand up straight.”

“Y-yes I can, I’m-I’m fine!” His jaw clenched with irritation, stumbling on the words, voice exasperated, letting out a fake laugh to make it sound believable, but he could tell she didn’t buy it.

“When will you ever stop pretending?” She shakes her head in disapproval, tutting in advance.

“You’re not real,” He muttered repeatedly under his breath, viciously rubbing his eyes with his palms, frantically pleasing to wake up from this hellish nightmare or in hopes of her disappearance.

“You said that already,” She sighed softly, the apartments dim lights reflecting on her silky golden hair, her thick long lashes fluttering gently, words spoken with such a sweet and angelic voice had a deeper, cutthroat, guttural meaning.

“You used to be better at lying,” She confessed.

Wilson froze, trying to ignore the stinging feeling of the tears welling up in his eyes, he attempts to suppress the blooming lump forming inside his throat. His stare fixated on to the unswept floor. He wanted to convince her that she wasn’t real, that she wasn’t sent to his world to save him from drowning himself, he wanted to express every thought that crawled relentlessly throughout his mind, but every time his mouth opened, his throat shut tight struggling to form words. He gripped the black marble counter so tightly that his knuckles transitioned to white.

“You’re so tired James. You can let go and taste the feeling of freedom and peace….you don’t have to keep pretending—No one believes you anymore.” She spoke softly, trying to appear as a gentle, loving person. The softness in her tone left him uneasy.

He slowly turned around to face her, his breathing becoming denser by the second. His eyes roamed all over Amber, memorising all the unique features she carried, refreshing his memory to all the petty things that might have left his memory.

“I-I’m not pretending.” His voice cracked, hot, angry tears threaten to fall on his face, humiliating him to his own subconscious. He didn’t enjoy the fact that his deep wishes and promises were being exposed right in-front of him.

As soon as Wilson spoke to her, Amber’s tone instantly switched back to what he remembered it to sound like, sharp and brutal. “Then why does it look
like you're dying.”

She circles around him dragging her feet as if they were heavy, her stare latched on him like a predator ready to pounce and attack on their prey. Her words were delivered with sharp precision, spoken like a snake, there was no softness in her words only the harsh truth that he isn’t ready to hear.

“You think you can keep going until you collapse?” It sounded more like a statement than a question. “Until your heart gives out? You and I both know how this story is going to end.”

“Stop it!” He snapped, harsher than he intended to, hands overemphasising in the thin air. She didn’t seem to be taken back from the sudden exaggerated outburst coming from Wilson, she just hummed a tone while circling around him, icy blue orbs latched on Wilson’s face waiting for a reaction. And a reaction he performed, his hand suddenly went to his weary heart, clutching his McGill sweater like a lifeline, endeavouring to suppress and ignore the dull throbbing pain aggressively stabbing at his sore heart. His breathing quickened, barely able to exhale the air he’s been holding in.

“There’s nothing left for you to fix.” She finally let out, her voice cold and bitter like a snake. “You’ve done enough. You’ve suffered enough. You’ll never be genuinely happy. Why not just…stop fighting against it?”

Wilson tightly shut his eyes again, repeating the same phrase to himself over and over again to make sure he believes that she is nothing but a figment of his imagination, someone who his brain pictured on repeatedly seeing. “You’re not real” He mumbled tiredly to himself.

When his eyes re-opened, he was taken aback by her figure right in-front of him—closer than ever. At a leisurely pace she took a step closer beside him. Her hands softly and inequitably brush against his calloused hands, her icy slim fingers wrap around his thin, slender, wrist with a loose grip in place. The chilling feeling was too surreal for his liking; it sent an unnerving shock run down through his spine. She tilted her head to face him, her gaze focused directly at him. Wilson felt her intense stare fixated on him, he endeavours to keep his head straight and look forwards on a blank pale wall while pretending to not be insanely bothered.

Leaning in at 45-degree angle, she whispers in his ear. “Give it up James…it’s not worth fighting anymore” Her words were barely audible, she spoke in a low soft voice, her golden hair grazes against his narrow face.

And just like that she disappeared from the face of existence (again), no evidence that she was ever here in the first place. She left him with various questions unanswered, his mind juggling many different thoughts at once unable to process them. Now he’s left alone, and strangely miss the uneasiness she brought to him. The kitchen’s empty, the refrigerator hummed back to life as if the cable had been plugged in. The once dense air thinned out—returning the atmosphere around him back to normal, but nothing else is usual, he still utterly despised his body—craving on the feeling to rip out his intestines just to be skinner, he still had an obsessive unhealthy obsession on attempting to figure out numerous ways for the numbers on the scale to rapidly drop down, still had an eating disorder that took out all the energy out of him—that took over his entire life.

Even though she was gone, something felt off. The fatigue and drowsiness only drowned him deeper, more personal, and different. His chest tightened, closing in, a sharp pain sliced through him, forcing him to gasp for a breath, his blurred vision closing in at the edges. The room tilted to one side, favouriting it. He clumsily stumbled towards the couch urgently needing to sit down and to regain himself. He couldn’t accept the excuse that he’s given countless times that it’s just exhaustion, the phrase felt too weak, even for him. His pulse thrummed weakly and irregular, his fingers trembled against his knee.

If he doesn’t take any action quick, he knows he’ll die alone, in his small apartment. It will take people weeks to realise there’s a rotting corpse in his apartment. And for a slight moment, he thought on how peaceful it would be to just give up on the ongoing war with his body, how there won’t be any worries on the numbers gaining. But something keeps him going, to be precise, someone keeps him from living. House. The person who’s been trying to get Wilson back on his feet, to make all his uneasiness go away.

He knows he should call someone, anyone. But all he wants is to hear House’s voice, the need to hear it before his death provides a surge of motivation to grab his phone and call him. His shaky eyes scanned the room too locate his phone, but it’s insanely difficult if the place keeps spinning. The phone was rested on the chestnut oak coffee table. And for an enlarged pause his entire body went cold and still, he felt paralysed, his arms felt too heavy to lift. Then he wearily and unsteadily reached for it. His wavering fingers aggressively and rapidly dialled House, in great hope to get picked up immediately. The phone picked up instantly. Wilson managed to force out two words, his words were spoken quietly and hoarse.

“House…come over”