Wilson wakes up with a killer headache and a stiff neck, and a feeling that the sun is shining a little too brightly on him. He knows where he is before he opens his eyes - the feeling of his office couch's cushions pressing against his back is not the most comfortable, but over the years it has grown almost familiar. Though most of the times he had spent the night on his couch were due to marital problems, not because he was suffering the effects of drinking amphetamine laced coffee and then popping a Vicodin later that day. He can feel a faint surge of annoyance flair up within him and tries to quell it down - he doesn't even have the right to be angry about this since he was the one that started it to begin with.
"We were made for each other," he sighs to his reflection as he straightens his tie in the bathroom of PPTH. Who the hell else drugs their best friend? Who the hell else stays best friends with a person who drugs them? He rubs at the base of his neck, partially to alleviate the stiffness and partially because that is where he holds most of his tension and it's pretty much reflexive at this point, especially when he's thinking about House and all the stress he causes.
"You slept in your office," Cuddy observes when she sees him walking back to his office.
"How did you..."
"You're wearing the same shirt and tie as yesterday," she notes. He hadn't had time to head home to change. "You never do that. Is everything okay? I didn't even know you were seeing someone."
"I'm not," he waves it off.
"You sure, Wilson?" she asks. "We, ah, had a patient complaint against you from the clinic the other day. The patient said that you acted oddly during the entire exam, winked at her while you examined her breasts, freaked out about something, ran out of the room, and left her there. That's not your MO. I asked for a description of the doctor because I figured it was House because - let's face it, that is his MO - but she described you in pretty accurate detail so you can't blame it on him."
"Oh, ah, yeah. That," Wilson stalls, weighing the options. He could tell her the truth - that House had spiked his coffee with amphetamines and thus was actually completely to blame. But she would want to know why; they both know that as crazy as some of House's moves look, he always does things for a reason. And, well, he still wasn't really comfortable discussing his own vulnerabilities with another person. He hadn't even wanted to spill to House, but the cat was out of the bag on that one.
"Yes. That," she confirms.
"I'm not seeing anyone anymore. But I was," he says quickly. "We broke up yesterday. I was upset during the exam and I let that interfere with my ability to act as a professional. I'm sorry. I didn't want to be sitting home alone last night so I came in to work on billing, and I lost track of time and fell asleep."
Another lie. It came to him so easily nowadays. Lying, breaking into people's homes, drugging his best friend. Writing an extra scrip for House here or there was one thing - he had rationalized that away long ago, first with the fact that narcotics were everywhere and House would get them whether he was involved or not and the pharmacy was better than the street-corner. Then, post-infarction it was even easier - House was a friend, he was in pain, and he was helping to take the pain away. However, it's moved even past that. And it kills him because he never used to be like this – he'd ruined marriages by telling the truth for God's sake. Now he lies to cops.
He's kind of anticipating House's morning drop-in; House helps Wilson reason things out just the same as Wilson helps House - sometimes just having a sounding board to bounce things off of helps - and these thoughts are things he needs to bounce off someone. Of course, because he wants House to drop by, House doesn't. Walks right past his door. He figures House must still be angry about the whole dosing thing. God knows why - House doesn't exactly treat his body like a temple to begin with.
His morning goes poorly enough that by the time lunch comes around he's moved beyond wanting to see House to needing to see him. He's found the best way to clear his head is to itemize his issues and tackle the most pressing ones first. And, well, getting House back on his good side will help him with the rest of the crap he has to slog through.
And maybe he owes House this.
House doesn't show up in line at the cafeteria behind him to beg for some food, and isn't waiting in his office when he gets back. That doesn't mean that Wilson doesn't know where to find him. He opens the door to the coma patient's room, drops his lunch in House's lap, and pretends to be really interested in the floor.
"July 12th, 2000," he begins, quietly at first, but his voice gains strength with each word and is back to normal quickly "Patient presented with depressed mood, markedly diminished interest in daily activities, insomnia, feelings of worthlessness and inappropriate guilt, and diminished cognitive function. Diagnosed with major depressive episode. Started on 20mg Paroxetine. Diagnosis later upgraded to chronic major depressive disorder. Medication dosage changed multiple times in the interim. Most recently May 30th, 2007, to 60mg Duloxetine delayed release."
He can feel House's eyes upon him, but doesn't look up.
"Happy?" he asks, feeling a bit resigned at giving up this last bit of privacy. "I'm just as screwed up as you are."
"No," the sharpness in House's voice isn't something he's used to hearing directed at him.
"Why not?" Wilson questions, though - he thinks - the real question is more along the lines of 'why can't you let anything be easy?' or, 'why do we have to do this today?' He really is bewildered at this point. "You win. You caught me yawning. You put the pieces together and solved your little mystery. You get the satisfaction of knowing that I'm just as messed up as everyone else in the world, and some nice juicy private information to hold over my head when you need it. What more could you possibly want?"
"For you to have told me seven years ago," House snaps.
"You were having a hard time yourself," explains Wilson. "Your leg. Stacy. Why should I have piled my problems on you on top of that?"
"Because I trusted you." House begins to pick himself up in order to leave the room and end the conversation. Wilson weighs the phrase in his head. Trust-ed. Past-tense. He's pretty sure nobody that really knows him trusts him anymore. Not any of his ex-wives. Not Cuddy. Not even House, now. Sure, his patients and their families do. So do girls waiting in line in the supermarket. But he's not Wilson to them. He's that kind oncologist with the brown eyes and the nice smile. Or James.
"You dosed my coffee with amphetamines." It's a last, desperate grab, ignoring the fact that he had been dosing House first. He's not sure how House has spun him back into the bad-guy role again, but that's where he is.
"I was worried." It's an uncharacteristic confession from House, and it softens Wilson's mood a little bit.
"You could have talked to me," he says. It's not really true, but he knows what to say in these kinds of situations.
Of course House calls him out on it. "Like you would have mentioned it. Like I said, you would think it would come up in conversation sometime over the course of seven years. I asked about the yawning. How the hell else am I supposed to talk to you? Do I need a secret decoder ring or something?"
"I'm talking now," Wilson points out.
"No psychotic features?" House asks, and Wilson knows that he is thinking of Danny, racking his brain to try and retroactively diagnose and treat his issues all at once.
"None," Wilson is happy to confirm.
"Suicidal ideations?"
"None." He knows this is the closest House will come to admitting that he actually cares.
He can also tell by the deep inhale and the instinctive hand towards the pocket for Vicodin that this next question is a big one for House. Of course, even without those tells, he would have known when he heard the words come out of House's mouth. "How could I not have noticed?"
Again, Wilson knows the right thing to say. He's practiced at mitigating guilt - he deals with it often with his patients and their families. "You were in pain, House. You had enough on your plate without worrying about me."
"I'm not talking about worrying, I'm talking about noticing. I'm not worried now. You're a big boy. You can take care of yourself. I'm around to tuck you in and make sure you're not crying into your pillow every night," House says. "I didn't notice."
"Nice, real nice," Wilson rolls his eyes. "How is this even about you?"
"The same way you've made every thing that has happened in my life in the last decade about you." The click of the door punctuates House's exit.