The room smelled like alcohol mixed with noodles and sick. Wilson pressed his arm over his mouth and nose, breathing in the shallowest breaths he could.
The answering machine had beeped relentlessly, ignored by Wilson, who was staring blankly into the TV. Some shitty action movie was playing. Something Wilson usually hated, but he wasn't really seeing it. It was just a half-assed attempt to pull himself out of his own head. Maybe the screaming and explosions could counter the suffocating nothing in his head.
Logically, Wilson knew he needed help. He couldn't think of the last time he was really happy. Or maybe he didn't care enough to try. A strange sort of nothing had filled his mind instead. It was like watching himself from the outside, going through life but not really feeling it. He should hate it- the nothing- but he couldn't muster up the motivation to care. Just like he couldn't change his clothes or make the bed or cook food. Things he'd liked. Things that had made him feel good, put together now meant nothing.
But the damn machine kept beeping. Wilson grabbed, seized by the desire to break it, but he hit the voicemail button instead, ever the conscientious man.
"W... Wilson"
The voice was slurred and weak, but it was House.
"I...I... I need...well, I need help" House slurred through the phone. He sounded drunk and... sad. The message ended. Wilson blinked. Guilt swept over him, the first real emotion in weeks. He got up, throwing his overcoat on top sweats and a stained t-shirt.
"House?" He called into the darkness. No answer. Shit. Wilson rushed over the couch, images of House passed out in a puddle of vomit, barely breathing, flashing behind his eyes. House was instead bent sideways across the couch, eyes closed and breathing regularly. He smelled violently of vomit and alcohol, and there was a bucket full of the former on the floor. "House!" Wilson shook the man. He looked around, a sort of detached confusion spreading through him. Whatever jolt of caring or guilt had dragged him here had faded back into the gray of nothing.
But Wilson shook House again. He knew he had to because he always did. He always picked House back up. This time was no different. At least that's what he told himself as his arms shake House into consciousness.
House had been drunk because it was the anniversary of his break up with Stacy. Wilson kicked himself mentally for not remembering. He should've. He was a shit friend for forgetting. Honestly, he didn't know why House even bothered with someone who couldn't even remember something so important.
So he sat with House all night, watching weird movies interspersed by random pornos. He watched as House ate instant ramen. Wilson wasn't much hungry himself. He put a hand on House's back when he choked up and listened silently to the rant he got for his trouble. He deserved it for forgetting. House finally fell asleep at 4am.
Confident that House would wander, hungover, into work around noon, Wilson shuffled out of the apartment and back to his own. He couldn't fall asleep. Or didn't care to. He turned the b-list action flick back on, letting the gunshots and explosions play the background music for his thoughts, which were mostly hitting himself for forgetting about Stacy.
Wilson looked at the Aspirin on the coffee table, left over from his last migraine. There was enough in there to kill him in under and hour. It wouldn't be so bad. At least he'd feel something for the first time in…how long?
But he didn't take them. He got up at 6:30, dressed, blow-dried his hair, pasted a smile beneath tired eyes, and dragged himself to work. He held his head up, saying all the right things and smiling at all the right moments.
No one knew there was anything wrong. No one would guess that there was anything wrong. After all, Wilson never faltered. Not where other people could see him.