Disclaimer: I do not own House M.D.
Wilson was grumbling as he stomped towards his car parked on the side of the street, giving one last nasty glare to the apartments that House resided in.
It certainly didn't ease his spirits that Cuddy would be on his back again on Monday about what had happened between him and House. He hadn't had leftover Chinese takeout and watched a cheesy movie. He had had a very sentimental talk with House, but that had not solved their problems.
Wilson was hungry. He had relied on Chinese takeout and completely ignored a regular dinner of his own.
He thumped his head against the steering wheel. Why was it he and House couldn't have a conversation anymore without it drifting to House's infatuation and ending in a fight that usually Wilson always seemed to initiate? Despite the fact that the friendship they used to have was messy and complicated he'd prefer that over the awkward and disastrous relationship they had created now.
What was House even thinking? Did he honestly think that Wilson would be eager to start a relationship with a sardonic, insensitive, and arrogant idiot?
Wilson was not fond of what this whole ordeal was doing to his behavior. People nagging on his back and him snapping at patients. The fact that he was the big villain in the picture was bothersome. It was like an itch he just couldn't find. Was he supposed to lie about his feelings and live in a world of misery with House as his male partner? It was insane what people were expecting of him.
Wilson pulled his car over at his building, slamming the door shut on his way out. Any passerby could state that the oncologist did have a certain slump in his step as he trotted up to his door, reaching for his keys.
Just as he had removed his jacket and nestled himself into his couch, the phone rang, making Wilson jump. He hastily grabbed the receiver.
"Hello?" He prayed that this wasn't House playing a revengeful prank call, or worse, House yelling at him over the phone and hanging up before Wilson could protest his arguments.
"Wilson?" Wilson felt his lips tug upwards in a relieved smile as he heard Cuddy's voice through the receiver.
"What is it, do I have to come back in to the hospital?"
"No," Cuddy brushed off immediately, "I wanted to ask you how things went with House."
Wilson wanted to hit his forehead against the coffee table. This was not something to call your employees with at eight-thirty in the evening after assuming that they took your blackmail.
When he remained silent, Cuddy pressed on firmly, "Well? I know you don't want to overlook House's practice for a few months so it was obvious that you would try to patch things up with him like I said you should–"
"Things didn't go that well… Cuddy, it's just impossible to deal with him," he heard the woman take a deep breath to begin ranting and hastily interrupted her, "But I'll fix it on Monday–"
The female groaned over the receiver, "Wilson," she growled, "I cannot stand another day of the smartest doctor in my building doing nothing but moping in his office all day long. Without him solving cases, he's just a rude and inconsiderate jerk that doesn't get anything done. Call him."
"He's not going to want to talk to me." Wilson reasoned, sighing.
"Try anyway."
The loud and everlasting click on the end of the receiver sounded. Wilson snarled at the phone. This was not a damn movie where actors and actresses hung up on each other for added drama. He slammed it down back into its place before dialing House's number reluctantly.
It rang. And it rang. And it rang.
It would be stupid for House to not pick up the phone. It's not like he had caller ID to avoid Wilson's calls and anybody else's, for that matter. Wilson didn't want to leave a message and call Cuddy back saying that that was his impersonal way of solving problems, an answering machine with no sarcastic comebacks to rile him up instead of talking to House about the situation.
He hung up, and called again.
And after that, one more time.
This was strange.
Wilson furrowed his brows together, a slight twinge of worry and regret staring to overwhelm in with small waves. He hurriedly dialed Cuddy's office number.
"This is Dr. Cuddy–"
"He's not picking up," Wilson muttered urgently. He didn't know why he was suddenly afraid for House. This wasn't the first time that the older doctor simply ignored the phone. He could be having an evening nap, or playing the piano too loudly to hear the phone, or maybe he wasn't even home at all. There was no need for his fingers to be shaking.
"What? Wilson?"
"House isn't picking up. I called three times."
"Then leave a message." Cuddy said.
"Just because he's upset doesn't mean he shouldn't answer his phone. Something could have happened." Wilson pressed beseechingly.
"If you're so worried, why don't you go check on him?" Cuddy said simply.
Wilson worried his lower lip. What if he was just overreacting? What if he would break down House's door because he didn't have a key anymore, only to find him sitting on the couch, drunk? Or just sitting on the couch?
"…Wilson?"
"I'm here. And I will." He concluded, and thrust the phone back into its holder.
Despite the fact that the roads were somewhat quiet and peaceful during nine at night, Wilson was not enjoying the empty roads illuminated with the gentle streetlights or the shadowed scenery. He was speeding through the streets and skidding on the curbs as though it was as slippery as ice. The moment he had parked his car he rushed from the sidewalk and up the steps to the apartments.
He stood blankly in front of House's door, attempting to listen through the wood for the sound of a mellow piano playing or the TV in the background. It was silent.
Wilson cursed himself for having given up his key. He pondered using a credit card or a bobby pin to open the lock, but he had neither of them with him. The only option left was breaking open the door, and Wilson was never the type to be able to smash through wood with his shoulder alone.
He knocked insistently on the door.
"House!" he yelled, trying not to let his fear sound through, "House, open the door please!"
There was not even a lazy grunt, a rude comment, or the sound of House's cane tapping softly on the floor.
Wilson bit his lip.
With a deep breath, he shuffled a few steps back before charging at the door like a livid bull. His shoulder banged against the door painfully and a sickening crack filled the hall, but the wood was still standing strong. He grumbled, nursing his shoulder.
This time, he walked back several yards, his other shoulder forward. Shutting his eyes tightly, he rammed his body against the door.
It gave way.
Promptly, Wilson opened his eyes as he heard the sound of splintering wood. It was that moment that he realized he was falling with the door as he frantically tried to claw onto the doorframe before his body hit the floor with a dull thud.
A splinter rammed its way into Wilson's hip and his shoulder. He groaned agonizingly, rolling over onto his other side to remove the chips tenderly. Blood oozed out, but Wilson ignored it as he made his way up from the ground and examined the apartment.
He froze.
House was sprawled, practically lifeless, on the floor without even a twitch of body. And lying innocently next to him was an empty bottle of vicodin.
"No." Wilson murmured.
It would be one thing if House had taken on overdose of allergy medicine buried in the back of his cabinets that was accumulating dust, but this was different. Wilson had supplied him with a bottle of vicodin and ran out leaving House distraught with just the perfect amount of misery to want to reach for the vicodin bottle.
And this time Wilson wasn't allowed to be mad, because House had not stolen one of his dead patient's prescriptions. Wilson had offered him an overdose on a silver platter, so it was his responsibility to make House healthy.
He really was the villain in all of this.
Wilson kneeled down next to the older doctor, lifting his head up slightly. He needed either smelling salts or a very heavy amount of potpourri to stuff underneath House's nose, but right now waking up was not even the problem. It was saving him that was the problem.
He grabbed the phone on the end table, dialing Cuddy's office number yet again.
"This is Dr. C–"
"House overdosed," this time it wasn't only Wilson's hand shaking, but it was his tongue as well, "we need to bring him in." With that he hung up, clumsily pushing the phone back up onto the table.
He pulled House farther into his lap, almost subconsciously petting his hair as he waited for the ambulance.
--
Something wasn't right.
As House's eyes fluttered open, the first thing that flitted across his vision was a hospital room ceiling, and that wasn't right. If he had died, being back in the hospital was certainly not heaven.
The next thing that processed through his brain was that he needed to throw up. And now.
Feebly, House pushed his head off the pillow and promptly vomited on the side of the bed. Several nurses yelped in surprise.
As he lowered his head back onto the bed, his blurry vision focused in on the man sitting on the side of his bed.
Wilson.
"Wilson." He mumbled faintly.
"You're such an idiot." The oncologist said acidly, shaking his head at the floor. He got up from the bed and shuffled toward House. "But this time it's my fault that you're an idiot. Which really makes me the idiot."
Just hearing Wilson's voice brought the pain back. House groaned, rubbing at his hairline tiredly.
"Are you trying to apologize?" House rasped dustily.
Wilson stared fixedly at the pillow, "I don't know," he admitted, "I… I guess so. I just feel bad. This is my fault."
"Yeah," the diagnostician choked throatily, coughing meekly in the process, "it is. But I forgive you." He held out his hand in what was meant to be a friendly and peaceful handshake, but instead Wilson took it in his palm and squeezed it fondly.
"What are you doing?" House croaked, staring oddly at their interlinked hands.
"I didn't mean to cause you this much pain." Wilson said quietly.
"So you believe me?"
The younger doctor nodded, sighing, "I'm sorry." He muttered.
"It's all right," House said hoarsely, "just because I'm not going to fall out of love doesn't mean I don't want to. I never meant to put you in a position where you were blackmailed by Cuddy."
Wilson chuckled silently, "I guess it's just that anyone can catch your eye," he said, "but it takes someone special to catch your heart. I thought I was just in your eyes."
"Don't make this all sentimental. All of this wishy-washy lovey-dovey stuff is not what I feel for you, all right?" House scolded.
Wilson ignored his comment, "I'm sorry I can't be more than a friend to you."
House shook his head, brushing it off, "I never thought you would be. You were that one thing I want that's the only thing out of my reach, and unlike others, I'm not going to spend all life chasing after that apple hung on a string and a stick. It's just impossible."
"You're making metaphors again," Wilson smiled, "that must mean you're getting better."
House shrugged, remaining silent as he listened to the steady beeping of the machines monitoring him.
Wilson released House's fingers and took the empty vicodin bottle that he had pocketed out of his coat, shaking his head at it. He tossed it deftly into the nearby trashcan, "It's just one addiction after the other, isn't it?" he said sourly. "The vicodin… me…"
"What addiction about you? Loving you?" House scoffed.
"Annoying me." Wilson corrected, pacing around the bed, "during this entire time that you were in love you only annoyed me."
"Wilson–"
"If you had to choose one, what would you pick?" Wilson asked grimly, his jaw set.
"What?"
"What would you choose, vicodin or me?" he challenged, putting his hands on his hips.
"I thought you said you believed me." House said.
"Just answer the damn question!"
"But – but I need the pills."
"The pain is in your head, House! You've told me a million times that I am not in your head! So what would you choose?"
The air was silent except for the continuous beeping. Wilson tapped his foot quietly, waiting impatiently for an answer. The tension in the room had the consistency of jello being put in the freezer for over a month.
"I knew it," Wilson said, throwing his hands up in the air, "I am in your head. I was right all along! There's nothing nicer than being told that you're second best to pain medication." He headed for the door, shaking his head as he went.
Just as he reached for the handle, House rasped out, "You."
"What?" Wilson turned.
"I would choose you."
The brown-haired man squinted his eyes, "Seriously?"
"I love the vicodin," House confessed, "but I love you more."
"I…" Wilson began, "thank you."
"You're welcome." He replied dully, sighing.
House knew all along that Wilson would never end up choosing him. He would end up choosing some girl that reminded him the least of House possible, and that would be just a way to prove to himself that he wanted nothing to do with his doctor friend romantically. He knew that even if House would lose Wilson's friendship, he wouldn't get back the heart Wilson had won from him. It was a quagmire that never seemed to want to end. Misery was etched right into the situation.
"I think you should go," House said croakily, "It's getting late."
Wilson's eyes flickered to his wristwatch. "You're right. I… I should get home. Get – get better, House." And with that, he turned toward the door without taking a glance back.
But whether he meant that House should get better concerning the overdose or the infatuation, he couldn't tell.
AN: Wow. I can't believe how many people are totally bashing Wilson in their reviews!! It's truly amazing. XD How many people out there think Wilson does need a little bastarding up in the show??
Meanwhile, everyone who lives in America, I hope you had a great Fourth of July filled with fireworks. In my neighborhood there were small, pathetic fireworks and the big ones didn't come till I was asleep… :D
And another thing, I'd like to thank LadyPurple who is in the midst of creating a House/Wilson video based on this story. I couldn't be more honored! :P
Lastly, I'm giving a loud thanks to D.Is.So.The.Man., a wonderful guy and a great friend. All of his reviews are like a slice of heaven, and I don't know what I would do if I wouldn't have him to be all analytical about what happens next and how the characters are secretly feeling. Sometimes I feel like he knows more about my story than I do, and that's golden :D