It's not an especially stressful day, for once. A light patient load, followed by easy paperwork. House has no patients, either, so he's not being forced to talk the other man out of his latest scheme. The quiet is peaceful, enhanced by the gold glow of the setting sun.
The light bathes him; for no real reason he gets up from his desk and opens the door to his balcony, closes his eyes and tilts his head up to feel the warmth on his face. He lets out a sound, a cross between a sigh and a purr and turns back toward his office. It's time to go.
"You should stay out here longer," a voice calls from behind. "A tan will make you look thinner."
Now he does sigh; a long, drawn out noise that signals the acquiescence of the inevitable.
"Why are you here, House?"
"Well, I do work here, you know."
There's a tinge behind Wilson's eyes; it's painful but short, like a burst of lightning through his veins, there and gone in a second, leaving singed nerves behind.
"You know. The usual. Board meetings, paperwork, charting. All that."
"House…" A throb begins behind his eyes, timed to the beating of his heart. He listens as House details the woes of his motorcycle, thus needing a ride home.
"Fine. Let's go." His whole head is pounding now, throbbing like the beat of a frenetic drum. He stops in his office to gather a few things and dry-swallows four aspirin; he doesn't want this to get any worse on the way home.
They fall into step in the hallway, taptaptapthump, moving together in one lopsided rhythm. House watches Wilson, blatantly stares. Wilson, as he always does, ignores this, keeps going, and tries not to break the momentum.
But ignoring House is like watching a stopped sink overflow; he can either pull the plug, listen to whatever genius comment House is about to share, or wait and have it pour out all over him, in an uncontrollable torrent.
"Yes, House?"
"Quiet, today, Wilson?"
"Tired. Headache."
"Stressed over anything in particular?"
"Just life, House. Life."
"Antidepressants letting you down?
"Yeah, I'm going home to slit my wrists, then have a nice hot bath. Not sure what order, though."
"Want a stronger dose, then? I could share."
"Sure. I've got some coke in my dash. Let's go to town." Wilson tries not to roll his eyes, glaring instead. He unlocks the car, gets in and watches House rearrange his limbs awkwardly. There's a sort of pleasure for Wilson in this moment, seeing House grimace, try to cover up a vulnerability he fiercely denies exists.
Wilson's silence is punctuated by House's breathing; the in and out is deep, evenly measured. He doesn't have a care in the world, it seems. Wilson stops for the left turn, reclines a little and lets his right arm hit the rest….which House has already taken.
House shoves Wilson's arm out of the way, muttering that arm rests are for guests only. Wilson says nothing, rubs his forehead, where the pounding moves from a dull ache into a sharp pound. Light hits his eyes and he squints, blocks the sun with his hand and pulls into an empty spot by Wilson's apartment.
House leans to the left, brings a hand under his right leg and pushes with his left to get out. For a moment, he's braced against Wilson, using his weight as an anchor. Then he's out of the car, muttering a goodbye. Wilson hears it but can't reply; his head is screaming, splitting at the seams. His hands grip his hair, then move to his ears. There's got to be blood, this pain is too real, too much—no? Nose—dry, mouth—dry, all the saliva absorbed back, none produced.
The pain begins to abate; Wilson lowers the visor and checks his eyes. Clear. No inflammation, no burst veins. He closes his eyes, breathes in as deep as he can and feels it shudder through him. His hands are on the wheel now, curling around the leather, holding on tight. He tries to fight back, push the pain out through his hands, through his tense muscles but it rebounds in him, plays tag with his internal organs.
Then it's gone
It leaves Wilson with no answers but the relief in and of itself pushes all other thoughts away, and he wonders when the feeling of nothing at all became the best in the world.
A few more breathes and he pulls the car out of park, moves into drive and gets to the hotel in one piece.
When he steps out of the car he realizes he's shaking, damp in the dip of his back and on the back of his neck. He vibrates against the still world. With his hands stuffed in his suit jacket pockets, he urges the elevator to go faster. His reflection seems to mock him, or at least his appearance. Bags lay under his eyes, pointing out already pale skin.
The elevator stops. He excuses himself as he edges around two loud children and their apathetic parents. He leans on the door after he enters the room, breathing heavy. God, he's tired.
He sits, lays down on the bed and lets himself drift. Maybe he can figure out why he felt so bad. Something he ate? No, only had coffee this morning and a bagel for lunch. Ok, so when did it start? In his office, when he was getting ready to leave.
No, before that. He was outside, on the balcony. The sun felt good—the headache came after, after. After House had made—after House.
Like a projector, Wilson's mind cues up where his headache became most intense. Walking with House, driving with House. House's pressure on his body. House's weight.
House.
But, no. That's impossible. Wilson's slowing mind rationalizes the coincidence away, begins to let go. His limbs start to feel heavy so he brings them close to his chest, turns onto his side and thinks once more of House before his mind takes over, transitioning him from reality into dreams.