It all happened so quickly, Wilson didn't know what was going on.
One minute, he was eating breakfast at Mickey's diner.
Then loud noises, crashing, and a flash of light.
The next, he was huddled behind a counter, covered in blood, his hands in a woman's chest.
People were shouting on the other side of the counter.
He found the two ends of the aorta, and tried to stop the bleeding.
They spurted all over him, and the woman's heart stopped beating.
She had no blood left to bleed.
Shots. Loud, deafening bangs.
Fire.
Smoke.
The sprinklers went off.
Bangs, and blinding flashes of light as the ceiling lamps were shot out.
Glass showers.
He was dragged out from behind the counter, and a gun was pressed to his head.
Two people lay dead or dying on the yellow tiled floor.
A window shattered, someone rolled in—twin bangs, one right next to his ear—!
He was dropped to the floor, coughing in the smoke-filled diner.
He sat, huddled on the back seat of a police squad car, shivering violently, staring at the asphalt in front of him.
Familiar sneakers and the rubber tip of a cane entered his field of vision, and he felt something warm and soft being wrapped around his shoulders.
House's voice asked if Wilson had to stick around.
Another voice said no, he had already been questioned.
Hands gripped his, guiding him to his feet.
He stumbled, the towel or blanket or whatever it was slipping off, pooling around his feet.
House bent, picking it up and wrapping it around his shoulders again, then following suit with an arm, pulling Wilson close against the older doctor's side.
"Come on, buddy," said House, gruffly but gently, "let's get you home."
Wilson nodded, sniffing and shivering.
Wilson jumped, as the door shut behind him and House.
House nudged him further inside, and then gripped his shoulders and got him into the bathroom, pushing him down so he was sitting on the toilet.
"You hurt?"
Wilson shook his head.
House pulled the towel off, sighing when he saw just how much blood Wilson was covered in.
He was literally spattered from head to toe.
House got up, running water from the sink.
A warm, wet washcloth moved over Wilson's face, wiping the blood and sweat and funny-smelling sprinkler water away.
Wilson closed his eyes, and allowed House to clean every inch of him with the warm, comforting washcloth.
He had tried to wash his hands in the sink the police had directed him to.
They hadn't come clean.
House's wiping made them clean.
He suddenly couldn't take it anymore, and flung himself forward, arms tightly squeezing his friend around the chest.
A hand rubbed over his back, as he started to sob.
He sobbed and sobbed and sobbed, and House held him close, and murmured quiet, comforting things to him.
Eventually, he cried himself out, but that didn't change what had happened.
That didn't change the blood that had spurted out of the woman's chest.
That didn't change the gunshots.
That didn't change the shot so loud he couldn't hear anything out of his right ear.
That didn't change the way the lights had flashed, blinding him temporarily...
he felt himself being shifted, so House could lean against the wall.
He felt House smoothing back his hair.
He felt himself slowly drifting off, exhaustion overtaking him.
He couldn't sleep on the couch.
He tried, and tried, and tried, and woke up screaming each time he tried.
The fourth time he woke up, House limped sleepily into the living-room, gripped his arm, and tugged him gently into the bedroom.
Wilson sniffed and rested his head on his friend's shoulder, his arm across his friend's chest, his hip against his friend's hip....
One of House's arms snaked around his shoulders, and the other one pulled the covers on top of both of them.
Wilson sniffed, and closed his eyes.
He slept.
House took him to get his ear checked out, and Wilson flinched at every noise and light.
House ended up grapping him around the shoulders with an arm, keeping him in the here and now.
Wilson was extremely grateful for the arm.
Wilson's eardrum was ruptured.
He sat on the stool while House fiddled with a hearing test machine, and the doctor put a gauze pad over Wilson's ear to stop the uncomfortable sensation of air going where it shouldn't inside his ear.
The doctor accidentally knocked over his supply tray when he stood up.
Wilson was cowering in a dark corner of the room, when he finally realized that he was still in Princeton Plainsboro, and that he was close against House, and that there was an arm around his shoulders, and a warm, familiar form next to him, and a friend whispering comforting words into his good ear.
Wilson sniffed, raising his head off his friend's chest.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled.
House shook his head.
"Dude, you... you deserve to be a little screwed up for a while."
Wilson nodded.
"I'm sorry," he repeated, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm--"
"Wilson!" snapped House, "wake up."
Wilson opened his eyes with a start.
House was gripping his shoulders, kneeling in front of him.
"Don't get lost," said House, quietly, "it's okay. You're okay. Let's just get you home, okay?"
Wilson nodded, and House helped him to his feet.
"Have you ever seen someone get shot?" asked Wilson, quietly, as they sat on House's couch with the TV on mute.
House gave him a pointed look.
"I mean, other than when you got shot?"
House nodded, "yeah. Multiple times, actually."
Wilson looked at him.
House shrugged, "my dad was in the marines, remember? Not that I actually saw any military combat, but we were usually stationed in places with a lot of unrest. One time, I was in this market in Egypt. A riot broke out. The police tried to stop it, and had a gun to the guy who started it's head, but one of his buddies grabbed me and held a knife to my throat. Said I looked American, and it'd be a problem if I got killed. Was actually a good strategy... though I wasn't too fond of it at the time. Somebody shot him in the back of the head. I nearly got squashed by a dead guy."
"Were you okay?"
House shrugged, "I was eleven."
Wilson looked at him.
House shrugged again, "it was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me. I ran home and told my dad."
Wilson blinked.
"Like I said," said House, shrugging for a third time, "I was eleven. I didn't really understand what had just happened, except that the good guys had shot the bad guys, and it had been exciting."
"What did your dad say?"
"I should have shot the guy myself."
"Huh?"
"Dad gave me a revolver when I turned ten."
Wilson stared at him.
"Who the hell gives a ten-year-old a revolver?"
"it was a different time. We were in dangerous places, and it wasn't like I was going to accidentally shoot myself with it. He taught me how to use it."
"But... a ten-year-old."
House shrugged.
"I did end up using it."
Wilson gaped at him.
"What... you didn't shoot someone?!"
House shook his head.
"Two people got in an argument over a camel. This was still in Egypt, by the way. About a month after I'd been in the riot. Each of them said they owned it. My dad had been attempting to make me read the bible, and I had just read the thing with Solomon and the baby. The two guys had guns out, and as exciting as the first riot had been, I didn't really want to be in another one. So I shot the camel and said they could cut in half now and be done with the argument. Then I ran away really fast. It did stop there from being a riot over the camel, but only 'cause they started chasing me instead."
Wilson stared at him, "why were you even allowed to go to that market?"
"'cause my dad didn't care, and I snuck out so my mom couldn't stop me."
Wilson shook his head.
When he was eleven, he was too briefly terrified to go outside because David had said he had seen a spider outside.
Of course, he was fairly sure, now, that David had been talking about outside in a much more general sense than 'right outside the front door where it'll jump and attack you if you so much as stick a toe out', but at the time....
"Why'd you keep going there?"
"Because it was a few hours I could get away from my dad."
Wilson blinked.
Then he scooted over a little, closer to his friend.
"I... can I sleep with you again, tonight?"
House nodded, smirking a little at Wilson's unintended meaning.
Wilson looked at him, large brown eyes liquid with hurt and pain and sadness.
"She died, House," he whispered.
House looked at him.
"Who?"
"Maria. She was a waitress at the diner. She... when I ate there, I usually got her as a waitress. I... she was nice. I had my hands in her chest when she died. I just... I... I...."
House gripped the younger doctor's shoulders, as Wilson started to cry.
"Get a hold of yourself," said House, fed up with his friend being all weepy, "you can be sorry she's dead, but it's stupid to blame yourself. I was listening to the ambulances and dispatch in the ER. She had a severed aorta, right?"
Wilson nodded, sniffing.
"Then the chances of her having arrived at the emergency room alive, no matter what anyone did, were basically zero from the start. She died. You liked her, she died. It's too bad. But blaming yourself is just... ludicrous, Wilson."
Wilson sniffed again.
He pressed his wet face into House's shoulder, still sniffing.
House was awkward beneath him, but didn't push him away.
"It's raining," said Wilson, quietly, as he sat on the window seat, eyes fixed on some point outside the apartment, hugging his knees loosely as he sat.
House looked up from reading.
Wilson had been strange, recently.
Of course it was because of the incident, but...
He seemed to have been affected more deeply than House had expected.
He jumped at every loud noise, and panicked every time he was in bright light.
But even when he wasn't, when he was in House's apartment, safe and not scared, he seemed different.
He hadn't gone back to his own place since the incident, and refused outright to go back to the hospital.
And now there was this strange mood that House didn't understand.
"Yeah," said House, "it's raining."
Wilson blinked sleepily, and just continued to look out the window at the rain patter and bounce on the asphalt.
"It gets cold when it rains. The ground, does. And the air."
"Yeah," said House, again, "it does."
Wilson closed his eyes, resting his head against the cold window, listening to the rain fall.
Floorboards creaked, and he felt House sit down behind him.
"What are you thinking?" asked House, close behind Wilson's ear. His voice was soft, but gravely at the same time.
His voice always reminded Wilson of his brother.
David.
Who was either dead, or out there in the rain somewhere.
Another person he had failed to save.
"Do you think dead people feel cold?" Wilson asked, quietly.
"No, Wilson," said House, "I don't think they do."
Wilson nodded, his eyes still closed.
"Okay."
Wilson eventually fell asleep against the window, and House picked him up and put him on the couch, since his leg wouldn't take well to carrying him all the way to the bedroom.
Wilson curled into a loose ball, and tangled his hands in the edge of House's shirt when the older doctor sat down.
House sighed, and rested his hand on Wilson's back.
Wilson murmured something quiet and sleepy, then was still.
House sighed again, and looked across the room at the window, wondering what Wilson had been seeing.
Wilson refused to leave the apartment.
House tried, and tried, and told him he was going to ride his bike in the rain if Wilson didn't stop him.
Wilson was paranoid about the bike and rain.
But he just stood sadly in the doorway, as House got on the bike, and pulled away from the curb.
He was sitting there, a half hour later, when House came back with some groceries and a file cuddy wanted him to work on.
He was still wearing his pajamas, a pair of House's old sweatpants and a t-shirt that said McGill in faded red letters, that he had left at the apartment at some point or another.
He was shivering, cold and wet from the rain and the wind.
House put the groceries inside, covered the seat of the bike with a fitted tarp, then sat down next to Wilson on the cold concrete step.
Wilson leaned into his shoulder.
"I couldn't do it," he whispered, "I couldn't follow you. I couldn't leave the doorway."
House sighed and put an arm around Wilson's wet back.
Wilson sniffed.
"Let's get you dried off," said House, squeezing his friend around the shoulders, briefly.
Wilson nodded, and stumbled to his feet, following House as he went back inside the apartment.
House sat him in the tub, and pulled off his dripping clothes.
Then he ran the water hot, and rubbed Wilson's hair with a towel.
Wilson drew his feet away from the water, and House turned down the temperature a little, so it wouldn't burn his friend.
Wilson sniffed, still shivering.
House wrapped the towel around Wilson's shoulders, not caring that the corners dipped into the water, drawing it up.
Wilson leaned into the side of the tub, so his head rested against House's shoulder, as the older doctor leaned over the side of the tub, trying to adjust the towel.
House stopped, and gently eased Wilson away from his chest. Not that he minded that much, but the position was awkward for his leg.
The water was up to Wilson's waist now, and House got up to get some soap.
When he turned back around, Wilson's upper body, including the towel, was mostly submerged, and his legs were sticking high out of it.
House thought for a brief moment that he was trying to get his mouth and nose under, but no. he was just cold, and trying to get as much of his body in the warmth as he could.
House pulled the towel out, and covered Wilson's legs with it.
Wilson looked at him, gratefully.
House nodded, and sat alongside the tub, as the water rose slowly, covering more and more of his friend.
Wilson sat up a little more each time the water rose too high on his face, and when the tub was all the way full, House turned the water off.
Wilson closed his eyes, and let the warmth seep into his cold, achy body.
The liquid was the exact right temperature, just the same as his body heat—
In a rush of water and dripping human, House was knocked over on the bathroom floor, by his friend's rush from in the tub to in front of the toilet.
He sighed and sat up, wrapping a fresh, dry towel around his friend's shoulders as Wilson retched.
"It's okay," he murmured, as Wilson leaned against him, tears streaming down his face, "shhh, it's okay."
Wilson sniffed, but did not reply.
Wilson had a cough the next morning, but not a bad one, and House couldn't convince him that he needed to go to the hospital to get checked out.
It went away within the week, and House was left with nothing other than Wilson's patients to use to bargain with his friend and get him out of the apartment.
He nagged the younger doctor incessantly about the poor dying cancer kids, but Wilson either didn't hear him, or didn't care.
Once, he snapped that everyone died eventually and his patients died sooner.
House asked him if that meant he shouldn't even bother trying to extend their lives.
Wilson said it didn't matter in the end. They still all died.
After that, House only left the apartment when he needed to see an MRI, or watch a surgery to solve a case.
He did the rest over the phone, and spent most of his time trying to get Wilson to stop acting so weird.
It really wasn't working.
He tried to physically drag Wilson out of the apartment, but before they even got to the door, Wilson had started hyperventilating and crying.
House realized it wasn't going to work, and knelt, as Wilson held on to him, sobbing.
The first person Kate Milton recognized on her first day back was Dr. Cuddy, who greeted her warmly, though seeming somewhat off and sad.
The second person Kate Milton recognized on her first day back was leaning against her office door with his arms folded, a determined look on his face.
"Come with me," he said, and though it was firm and he looked upset, it wasn't really an order.
"I'm not having sex with you," she said, rolling her eyes.
"I'm not in the mood, anyway."
He pushed himself off the door, and motioned for her to follow him.
He seemed upset, in the same way Dr. Cuddy had been.
She followed him to the elevator.
Then out into the lobby.
Then towards the door.
She spotted Cuddy, and gave her a questioning look.
Cuddy nodded—it was something reasonable.
Kate followed House to his car, and got in the passenger seat.
He drove to a street, and stopped in front of a line of old buildings.
She followed him up the steps of one, and into what she recognized as his apartment.
Wilson was sitting on the couch, watching TV on mute.
"Fix him," said House, pointing to Wilson.
Kate looked at House.
Then at Wilson, who had looked over at the sound of Kate's unfamiliar voice.
Then back at House.
"What's wrong?"
House limped inside, gripped Wilson's arm, and tugged him towards the door.
Wilson wrenched himself free, looking panicked.
"This," said House, as he stepped back towards his friend and let Wilson cling to him.
Half an hour later, Wilson was asleep in the bedroom, and Kate and House were sitting on the couch.
"What happened?" asked Kate, quietly.
"He was eating breakfast at his favorite diner. Someone decided to rob the place. Wilson ended up having some waitress he was friends with die while he had his hands in her chest, trying to stop her from bleeding out from a severed aorta. Then he got held as a hostage with a gun to his head. Then the police shot the guy dead. A bunch of other people died. He was kind of okay for the first few days, except he panicked every time he heard a loud noise, or was in bright light he didn't expect. But then he got really weird, and now he can't leave the apartment without freaking out."
Kate sighed.
"I can't just *fix* him. I can't tell him everything's okay, and suddenly make everything *be* okay, to him. I can prescribe anti-anxiety meds, and anti-depressants, and work on gradually easing him back into the world. But you have to understand, it's going to take a while."
House nodded.
"I need to know... did anything specifically happen right before he got 'weird'?"
House scratched the back of his head, "I told him I shot a camel."
Kate blinked, "What?"
"I shot a camel when I was eleven. And I told him about when I got caught up in a riot."
"Why did you shoot the camel?"
"To stop another riot."
"When you were eleven?"
"Yeah. My dad was stationed in Egypt."
"Oh."
"Then he told me he liked the waitress who died while he was trying to save her, and I told her there was no way he could have saved her, that it wasn't his fault that she died. Then he asked if he could sleep in the bed with me again—he kept waking up all panicky when he slept on the couch. I said yes. He was weird the next day."
"What'd you tell him about the riot?"
"That I got held hostage with a knife to my throat. Somebody shot the guy who had me."
"Why did you tell him that?"
House shrugged, "he asked if I had ever seen anyone get shot."
"What was your initial answer?"
"Something like, yeah, multiple times."
"You've seen someone get shot multiple times?"
House sighed, "yes. My dad was in the marines. I never saw any direct combat, or anything, but we were always in fairly high-tension areas. Yes, I've seen people get shot at least five times. Counting the time I got shot."
"You were shot?"
"Yeah. Three years ago. Some nutzo ex-patient came into the differential room and shot me twice."
"Was Wilson there when that happened?"
"No."
"Could Wilson have heard the shots?"
"Maybe. I don't know if he was in his office or not."
"Where were you shot?"
"Neck and abdomen," he said, lifting his shirt and turning his head so the light caught the shiny skin on his neck.
"Did he react more strongly to loud noises than bright light?"
"Maybe. Hard to tell, given both of them ended with him completely panicking. Though, I think it might have been the case."
Kate nodded.
"Well, to start with, I'll prescribe some anti-anxiety meds, and an anti-depressant that might help, some. Other than that, you need to talk to him about seeing me. I will help, but he has to be ready to let me."
House nodded.
Kate stood.
"House... I am sincerely sorry this happened. I will do my best to help him."
House nodded again, and for a brief moment, Kate could see how upset he was, before it was all shoved back behind his walls.
She left, and House limped into the bedroom, sitting on the bed.
Wilson opened his eyes.
"You think I'm crazy, don't you?"
"No," said House, reaching over to rub his friend's shoulder, "I think you're scared and depressed and hurting."
Wilson held his eyes for a long while.
Then he nodded, closing his eyes again.
"You willing to see if she can help?"
Wilson nodded again.
"Good," said House, quietly, still rubbing, "I'll let her know."
a car backfired in front of the apartment.
Wilson spent half an hour under the bed.
House eventually dragged him out, so he could give the younger doctor the acute anxiety meds Kate had prescribed.
Wilson fell asleep.
House sighed, watching the slow rise and fall of his friend's chest.
This sucked.
"Were you scared?" asked Wilson, as they sat on the couch together, the volume turned up to five. The loudest noises were quiet whispers, and you couldn't hear anything else at all.
House looked at him.
"When?"
"When you saw another riot was going to break out?"
House blinked, "yeah. Of course I was scared."
"But... you..."
"What, Wilson?"
"You shot the camel."
"uh... I don't get what you're getting at, Wilson."
Wilson turned off the TV, looking at him.
"You didn't freak out."
House laughed, "of course I freaked out. That's why I shot the camel."
"House," said Wilson, frustrated, "you didn't curl up and start sobbing your eyes out."
House looked at him.
His expression softened.
"No," he said, "I didn't."
"I wish I was you," Wilson muttered.
House smiled, a little.
"No you don't."
"How can you say that, House? I can't leave the apartment."
"I didn't curl up and start sobbing my eyes out because I had too much experience with physical harm. You've had too little."
Wilson frowned, opening his mouth to ask, but House turned the TV on, all the way up to twenty.
Wilson quickly turned it back down, before it could startle him, and in doing so distracted himself from what House had said.
The power went out.
Wilson freaked when the transformer blew, but calmed without meds.
House lit a fire in the fireplace, and laid out blankets and pillows in front of it.
He sat, reading, while Wilson sat close next to him, reading over his shoulder.
The younger doctor was shivering.
House got another blanket, and wrapped it around Wilson's shoulders.
Wilson leaned into his shoulder, still shivering.
House sighed, and pulled the blanket around both of them.
The fire popped, and Wilson startled, knocking House over.
House sighed, lying in front of the fire, as Wilson slowly calmed.
Wilson looked at him, almost about to cry.
House shook his head, and motioned to the space between himself and the hearth.
Wilson laid down, his back against House's chest, and House's arm wrapped over his waist.
He closed his eyes, and they fell asleep together, warm in each other's company.
Wilson yawned, opening his eyes.
He was lying on top of House.
Not fully on top, but his arm, head, and about half his torso were draped over his friend.
House was on his back, snoring peacefully.
Wilson sat up, the blankets he had tangled himself up in as he slept falling loose.
House looked worn, even in his sleep.
Wilson gritted his teeth.
He had barely made any progress with Kate.
He stood up, stepped over House's sleeping form, and walked to the door.
He opened it, forcing himself to ignore the tight feeling in his chest.
There was no gunman. No spider.
Nothing but an empty street.
He looked over his shoulder, at House still sleeping on the floor.
Then he looked back out the door.
He took a step.
He was hyperventilating.
He took another step.
He couldn't get enough air.
He sat on the edge of the landing.
He was losing hold.
He started crying.
He refused to let himself go back inside.
He lost it, but still not completely.
Still enough to keep himself outside.
His vision was going dark.
Warmth along his side.
He looked.
House had woken, and seated himself next to his friend.
Wilson leaned into House's shoulder, sniffing.
"Why?" asked House, quietly, "you went further than you've gone before, with encouragement."
Wilson looked at him.
"I don't want to keep doing this to you."
"Doing what?"
"You're worn out. You're tired. And it's my fault."
House shook his head.
"It's fine, Wilson. If I didn't want to be doing this, do you think I would be?"
Wilson shook his head, "you don't want to do this. You want me to get past this. But you don't want to have to do this."
"Do you?"
"No."
"Then do it for yourself, not for me."
Wilson smiled, quietly.
"That's what Kate says. But I've always been better at doing things for other people than for myself."
"Which is why you feel guilty. You feel that you deserve this because you failed to save Mary."
"Maria."
"Whatever."
"I don't... well... yes, I do feel guilty. I do blame myself. But that's not... that's not..."
House blinked.
Wilson was breaking down again, but this time not out of fear.
"What if it had been you?" he sobbed.
"Huh?"
"What if it had been you on the floor, what if I had... if I had lost... if.... before I...."
House gripped his shoulders.
"Wilson. Look at me. It's okay. Everything's okay. I'm fine."
Wilson sobbed, grabbing House around the waist, clinging to him, "I love you," he sobbed.
House blinked.
His expression softened, and he rested a hand on Wilson's back.
"I know, Wilson," he whispered, "shhh."
Wilson squeezed tighter, burying his face in his friend's shoulder.
"The feeling's mutual."
Wilson gasped, sobbing uncontrollably.
House gently eased him off, guiding him to his feet.
"It's okay, Wilson," he said, quietly, leaning in.
Wilson closed his eyes, as House's lips touched his.
They pulled back, and he opened his eyes.
House's blue eyes were looking back at him, perfectly calm.
He stepped down one step.
Then another.
And another.
Then onto the sidewalk.
It was snowing.
Wilson followed him one step.
Then another.
And another.
Then he stepped onto the sidewalk.
He was trembling, and he couldn't have gone any father, but...
He wrapped his arms around his friend, as House leaned against the side of the car, and rubbed Wilson's back.
Wilson closed his eyes, feeling safe again for the first time in a month.
Standing in his pajamas, close against House.
He raised his head from House's shoulder, and kissed him.
"Thank you," he whispered, and rested his head back down, again.
"Uh-huh," said House, quietly.
Wilson leaned heavily against the older doctor, exhausted by how far he had come, and how much it had cost him to make himself do it.
They went back inside, but Wilson knew, now. He knew that he would get over it.
He knew that everything would eventually be okay.
And, eventually, it was.
Mostly.
He was still jumpy, he still had panic attacks, and he still didn't like being in the brighter parts of the hospital.
But he was back to doing his job, and that was enough for him.
Especially because of what had come of the whole ordeal.
He thought this, as he lay next to House in bed, and not because of the nightmares.