Chapter Text
Wilson needed to be needed so badly he forgot he too, needed to be needed over.
People never noticed because everyone got so focused on House being a glued-closed, pages-torn, unreadable book they forget to check up on the mentally unwell shadow working one wall over. No one got into House’s mind and he certainly made no effort to get out. Which is why when Wilson’s life went crumbling into pieces, Wilson could lock his feelings up with so much as a shoddy half-assed smile and no one was any wiser because everyone was still trying to pry into House.
Fortunately for his idiot of a friend, House didn’t have to worry about digging into his own thoughts and emotions, so he had plenty of time to study up on Wilson.
Right now, Wilson looked like shit.
His horrendous McDonald’s red tie with equally vomit-worthy, skid-mark brown stripes took residence around his neck for the second time that week. Shockingly, Wilson’s terrible personal style was the least unusual problem to be dealing with.
The carefully prepared salads with the homemade dressings and ingredients with actual nutritional value turned into premade, supermarket salads in plastic containers that came with environmentally unfriendly fold-out forks under the lid. Sometimes he simply nibbled at a packet of chips from the vending machine. Two or three times, Wilson didn’t have lunch at all.
His perfectly ironed shirts lost their crisp edges. Not enough to really stand-out as unprofessional or untidy, not when he shrugged on his lab coat over top and had the general excuse of being run around the hospital dealing with patients to explain away the wrinkles. But Wilson, being the striking metrosexual he strived to be, always kept up appearances. Even after all three of his divorces, a flowery fabric softener clinged to his clothes and every line and every seam stood stock-still in place against his frame.
Then there was his hair. When Wilson lived with House after Julie left him, Wilson dedicated a solid half hour to styling his hair in the morning. Shampoo. Conditioner. Some sort of post-wash mousse. A lengthy session in front of the mirror with his hairdryer and a comb always ended the routine. House lost count of the number of times he wandered in to take a piss to find Wilson shaping each individual hair to rest against his head just right. Lately, his hair had lost its voluminous bounce and shine.
To the regular observer, this meant absolutely nothing.
With House’s impeccable diagnostic skills, he knew better. Wilson was fumbling the game. He lost his appetite. His energy dwindled. He struggled to make those extra little efforts that made Wilson, Wilson. Just enough to let House know he had fallen into a pit of despair.
Which simply would not do. If Wilson could barely get himself together, how was he going to make House dinner, answer his midnight calls to pick him up from the bar, or fight off Cuddy when she accosted him in his office to convince Wilson to convince House to do his clinic hours?
Unacceptable.
Wilson needed to get his shit together.
So House showed up with his usual cheerful self, beer, and a pocketful of Vicodin, because Wilson in this frame of mind opened up a new possibility in the fabric of the universe where House might, just maybe, have to clean up after him, and if it came to stepping into the wormhole into that parallel universe, he wasn’t going to do it sober or in pain.
And he certainly wasn't doing it out of the kindness of his heart.
No siree.
Helping- ughh, he needed a new word; maybe ‘pulling his idiot friend out of the gutter before he pulled him down too’- Wilson was for his own selfish gain, of course. The sooner Wilson’s brain chemistry returned to its chemically chipper state then the sooner he could go back to providing after House like the good housewife he made himself to be.
Wilson paid House no mind as he used his spare key to let himself in. House made himself at home, shoving Wilson’s feet off the end of the couch where he had been lying down watching…”Really, Wilson? Gilmore Girls?" and plopped down on the couch.
Wilson shimmied his knees into his chest and curled further up on his end of the couch. He blinked slowly at House, before his eyes dragged back to the TV. His attention lacked on both fronts.
“This is the part where you defend yourself.”
“I'm not in the mood.”
House gestured to Wilson still in his work clothes (wrinkled again) and verging on the edge of sleep with his shoes stuck on his feet. “I can see that,” he said, then gestured to the general state of Wilson’s apartment, “so can anyone who looks through your window.
While Wilson's apartment nowhere near trumped House’s bachelor pad laziness and disabled incapable-of-tidying-up-for-long-periods-of-time-ness, it did surpass some of his own previous records for being neglected.
The dishes were always the first to go. Most of Wilson’s dishes laid splayed out over the kitchen counter. A couple of mugs and cups dotted the coffee table. One sat on the floor with the dregs of coffee staining the sides.
The piles on the counter came in three clear stages of his depression.
First, the stacked and rinsed plates, soaking pots, and the cup of water with cutlery sticking out the top. He found those closest to the sink and ready to be washed. Wilson put in all the prep to do these dishes but failed to follow through. This, House noted, was the start of his downfall.
Next came what House proudly dubbed as ‘The Unrinsables’. A haphazard mess of crusted up sauces and a mosaic of discarded food practically thrown on the nearest clear surface. Wilson made no plans whatsoever to sort those dishes out.
Lastly, the true indication of the extent of Wilson's state of mind; takeaways. Chinese boxes. Wrappers straight from the collection of snack food found in the vending machine down the hall from his office. McDonalds paper bags crumpled up instead of neatly placed inside the bin -scanning, scanning, scanning- four feet away.
Wilson never got over the health nut phase of his youth. The resignation of falling into the stomach-pudge years of middle-age stayed two steps behind Wilson, who, to House’s confusion, chose to live life to the dullest with regular exercise, food that came from the dirt, and warm home cooked meals.
When his habits of self-care went by the wayside, House knew the situation has become dire.
And that was just the dishes.
The washing basket of his clean laundry sat on the floor beside the TV. House raised his brows at Wilson’s uncaring form and hobbled over.
On closer inspection the clean clothes lacked their fresh, chemical scent. Either he couldn't be bothered to add anything beyond the perfunctory washing powder (bringing about another question of whether he ran out and never went to the store for more, or just didn't want to put in the energy for a ten second task), or the clothes had been sitting there long enough to lose their fresh-out-the-dryer smell.
Wilson stared dumbly at the 'Gilmore Girls' as House rounded the couch for Wilson’s bedroom.
Just as he suspected.
His bed being unmade was a capital ‘I’ for insanity in Wilson's book. Wait until he got over his depressive episode and got an earful from House about his slacking off. God, Wilson made himself easy to embarrass.
A few shirts and pairs of pants lived on the carpet. Some of his ties were crinkled up in the debris of his manky clothes. House ignored them. Maybe the mere thought of his precious ties being infected by floor germs would be enough to convince Wilson to get rid of them for good.
More of Wilson's mugs blended in with decor. As did discarded food packaging and the sad amber bottles of his antidepressants. The curtains were drawn. House suspected they had been for some time now. The hamper with his dirty clothes overflowed. Peeking out through a hole at the bottom looked to be the shirt Wilson wore last week. Wilson always put a wash on over the weekend. He had truly hit rock bottom.
House whizzed back around and poked Wilson in the stomach with the end of his cane. “Get up.”
Wilson grunted, “UGH-ow!” and clutched his stomach. “I don’t know what you want but the answer is no.”
House prodded him again. This time he got him in the back of the knee and under his ribs. Wilson squirmed like a worm being attacked by a digging dog as he tried to protect himself. “We’re going out.”
“Stop that!”
“I will if you get up.”
Wilson made a particularly satisfying high-pitched squeal as the cane got him square in the armpit. “Go away, House.”
“You’re in a foetal position on the couch and I’m standing above you with a weapon,” he waved his cane around like a sword, “I think we both know how this conversation is going to go.”
“I don’t feel like going out.”
House rolled his eyes. “That’s the point.”
Wilson curled back over with a whine. The TV glowed off of the sweat on his forehead.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”
“Hard way,” he mumbled.
“Okily dokily,” House sing-songed. He leant his cane up against the back of the couch, knocked back a Vicodin, clicked his fingers for dramatic effect (Wilson barely even flinched), then stuck his hands under Wilson’s arms and lugged him into a sitting position before he Wilson even registered what was happening.
“Get off of me! What are you-” he swatted at House and threw his limbs around in true insolent toddler fashion. Wilson tried for the dead-weight routine but House swung him forward until his feet hit the floor and used the momentum to pull him to a stand.
Wilson pushed on his chest, quite weakly, House thought with a condescending brow raise in Wilson’s direction. “Really?”
“Where do you get off!” Wilson barked.
“My bed. My couch. My office. Anywhere with a place to sit down really.”
Wilson’s face blew up red, full to bursting with steam. “Let me go. I’m really not in the mood.”
House flicked him in the side of head. “Are you brain dead or just stupid? We just went over this. That’s the point,” he enunciated slowly, “judging from the mould on your dishes, you haven’t been in the mood for quite a while now.”
“And this is you caring is it? Dragging me out to what? Get shit-faced with you because you’re bored?”
House’s stomach squirmed with the insinuation, as mocking as it came across, that he might have been caring about Wilson in any capacity. Nope. Nu-uh. This was purely a matter of getting food into his belly and his friend’s stores of generosity refilled to its normal excessive levels so House could go back to leeching off him instead of going through the painful task of getting Wilson to step outside. “We’re going out for dinner.”
Wilson scoffed and pinched his brow. “Just grab my wallet and let me rest.”
“It’s not as fun if I don’t have anyone to whine to.”
“The world revolves around you, House. I’m sure there’ll be a line of people waiting to talk to you.”
Wilson managed to loosen House’s grip and slide out of his reach. House lurched forward and scooped him around his middle from behind, using his cane as a makeshift bar to block him in.
Wilson’s shoulders sagged. He half-assedly pushed at the cane locking around his waist to no avail. “What is your problem?” he sighed.
House slunk his chin around his shoulder and grinned down at Wilson’s scowling face. He was so close to defeat. “My problem is the chemicals in your brain are turning you back into a hormonal teenager. You need to get out of your apartment and experience life. Have a drink. Get laid. Remind yourself there’s a world beyond your couch.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“Hey, crippled leg here! If I could go gallivanting around town, I would.”
It was the final straw in a small pile of straws and Wilson groaned into his hands. “Fine. We can go out. But it’s just dinner. Then we are going home and you are leaving me alone. I cannot stress this last point enough.”
“We’ll see.” House said as he released Wilson from his cane prison, though he kept a good grip on his wrist to guide him out to the car.
***
Wilson stared at him, then at the restaurant, then back at House. He rubbed his eyes. Then he blinked them open with a dramatic enacting of confusion- someone give the man an Oscar!- and put a hand on his heart.
House waited him out. “Are you done?”
“This is the place?”
“Yes. If it wasn’t this place, then we would be somewhere else.”
Wison eyed him sceptically. “It’s not like the Tardis is it? I’m not going to walk inside and end up in a dive bar instead?”
“Your endless trust in me always amazes. And arouses.”
“I should have worn a tie.”
“That’s the last thing anyone wants you to do.”
House nudged him forward with a push to his back. “Open the door. Don’t keep the cripple waiting.”
“Thought this dinner was about me,” Wilson grumbled as he propped the door open for House to walk through. House went up to the waitress greeting the patrons while Wilson lagged behind brushing off the invisible dirt and some actual stains on his work clothes. The waitress, -he wasn’t going to learn her name; that was Wilson’s forte- directed him to their table; a white, table-clothed affair in golden lighting like it was Valentines Day. They didn’t exactly have restaurants specifically designed for your depressive friends. Maybe an ice cream bar…how hadn’t he thought of that? Damn. That would have been way cheaper.
House plucked the reservation sign off of the table as Wilson came towards him and slipped it onto the floor where he kicked it under his chair.
“This place is fancy. Did you book ahead?”
“I wouldn’t even know how to do that. We just got lucky.”
Wilson gave him a knowing look. He opened his mouth but House balled up a napkin and tossed it at his face. “If you say one word, I’m putting away my wallet and ordering the lobster on your card.”
“You’re going to pay?” Wilson asked gleefully. His whole face lit up like a dog greeting its owner at the door.
“Count that as your first strike.”
Wilson put his hands up in surrender as he slid into his seat. “You play a hard bargain.”
“I do expect you to put out.”
“Count me in for the lobster then.”
“That's not very Kosher of you, Jimmy.”
“And me eating you out would be?”
“Touche.”
The waiter came around and took their orders. House, the steak, and Wilson, the minestrone with toasted bread on the side. It wasn't the fanciest meal (House's wallet held back from complaining) but Wilson hadn't been eating right lately and he needed food that would settle in his stomach rather than come straight back up all over House’s slightly nicer than usual Rolling Stones band-tee.
Wilson also stuck to a glass of water and a single light beer while House ordered his standard double whiskey. Wilson stared wistfully at it. If he was jealous, he only had himself to blame.
House waited for Wilson to get most of his food in him before popping the question (as much for his benefit as it was for Wilson's.)
If House's insides fluttered like spiders giving birth, he put it down to having to have an uncomfortable conversation with Wilson rather than one of those disgusting human expressions of care or worry. This entire set-up- not an intervention or a moment of TLC, but a scheming, hustling, flim-flam of a set-up- was to illusion Wilson into getting some life back into him so he could start doting after House the way the Good God intended, or would have intended should he have actually existed (not that Wilson in all his Jewish glory wanted to hear that argument again).
“Have you, uh, talked to Dr Anderson?”
Wilson’s spoon hesitated half-way to his mouth. “Um.”
Dr Anderson was Wilson’s psychiatrist who he was meant to go to an appointment with once a month and call for an urgent session whenever he got down in the dumps. Over the years some of House’s stubbornness and hatred towards the psycho-orientated professions rubbed off on Wilson and he refused to do the responsible thing and go see Anderson. While House would usually have been on board with that sort of avoidance behaviour, in these unique circumstances, Wilson playing hooky from his shrink got in the way of House’s agenda and that simply would not, could not do.
“I’ll take that as a no”
“I have.”
“Liar.”
“It’s not a lie. I have seen him before. Just not…recently...” he trailed off.
House chewed around his mouthful of meat, spittle flinging out the sides. “Come on, Jimmy. You had the loophole and the lie. You should have stuck with it.”
“You already knew it was a lie!” Wilson complained, “and can you close your mouth while you're eating?”
House opened his mouth even wider and gnawed down on his food in slow, rhythmic motions.
Wilson covered his eyes. “Gross.”
“I'll keep doing it until you call your shrink.”
“You want me to do it now?”
“He isn't gonna call himself.”
Wilson peeked between his fingers, eyes dull and harried.
House shoved in another piece of his steak and a few fries for good measure.
“Fine, fine, fine. You've bested me!”
Wilson pulled out his phone and got to a stand.
“Where do you think you're going?”
“Outside.”
“Nuh, uh, uh. There's no fooling me. You'll talk to him right here,” he pointed to the seat with his knife, “where I can hear you.”
“Really? You think I'm going to fake a phone call.”
House stared directly into his eyes. “Yes.”
Wilson threw his arms up. His exasperated sigh oversaturated the room in carbon dioxide. Siding his fingers through his hair, Wilson sat back in his seat and grumbled to himself, “you couldn't just come outside with me so everyone else in his restaurant doesn't have to know how much a mental case I am?”
“Cripple remember! Besides, I don't want them to steal my food.” He said the last part purposefully loud and the couple at the table next to them gave him a stern look. He raised his brows as he tucked his plate closer to his chest and mouthed a ‘yes, you’ to them, which was met with open mouthed indignation and a snip-snap of their fingers for the waiter.
“You better make it quick before we get kicked out.”
“You're unbelievable, House.” Wilson said, but dialled his psychiatrist's number anyway.
Wilson's fingers remained pinched between his eyes as the dial tone rang out. Anderson’s tinny voice came through the speakers. Wilson slumped even further in his seat. His forehead made landing on the tabletop.
A waiter approached their neighbouring table. Hushed whispers rang out on both ends.
House tuned in to Wilson’s conversation. He knew the couple across from them would be talking shit and trying to get a different table, or even House removed from the restaurant. He poked his tongue at them while the waiter wasn't looking. Maybe he made a crude gesture involving his fork being shoved halfway down his throat while he blinked at the woman innocently. But that was for the couple to know and the security cameras to find out.
Wilson shielded the phone from the rest of the patrons with the flimsy drink's menu tucked behind his phone. House failed to tell him the bend of the laminate only amplified his whispers. All the ears in a two-table radius perked to attention.
“...yes, I know.”
“...you know…anytime.”
“Yeah, but I thought I could handle it.”
“What…-deranged? Arranged? Changed!- your mind?”
“House is taking me out for dinner. So either I lost my mind or I’m doing so bad he can see it.”
Silence fell over the line. Anderson’s breathing crackled.
“Dr Anderson?”
“You’re -bending? Fending? Spending!-... time with House?”
House tossed the bone from his steak at Wilson’s shirt. “Your shrink thinks I’m a bad influence?”
Wilson squawked, alerting, once again, the testy couple exchanging words with the waiter. All three of them turned their heads to shoot nasty glances at them. The waiter just looked tired. Wilson waved them off with a nervous chuckle before sending his own disappointed cross of his brows and scrunch of his nose across the table. “What the hell?”
“It already had a mustard stain on it. Think of this as a wakeup call to do your washing.”
Dr Anderson mumbled something in a vaguely concerned voice.
“I’m fine,” Wilson said back to him, gazing warily at House’s next move.
The next part of Anderson’s conversation sounded very much like ‘is House with you now?”
“Yes.”
And then, “let’s talk about this more at your appointment.”
To which Wilson somewhat reluctantly agreed and hung up.
Groaning, Wilson pressed his palms into his eyes and simply shook his head for a solid minute.
“Why am I in your therapist’s bad books?”
“I can’t believe you think that question justifies an answer”
What could House possibly have done to make Wilson’s shrink be concerned about them hanging out? Without House in Wilson’s life, not only would he not be getting a free dinner (ahh, friend of the year right here!) but he would have missed out on over a decade worth of his wisdom, genius, and striking personality. People paid a pretty penny to see House for his expertise and Wilson got it all for the low, low price of a couple of fries off of his plate at lunch and the occasional whinge. And people said Wilson drew the short stick in their friendship…
“I’m not above breaking into his office and stealing your file.”
Wilson bobbed his head, a wry smile pulling at his lips. “No, I don’t doubt that you are. In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t already.”
“Didn’t have a reason to until now.” If House had a complaint about Wilson, he took it right to the source. He wanted every dirty detail Wilson shared with Anderson. It was only fair.
“Yeah, well remind me to tell Anderson to put my file on the top shelf. If I’m lucky, you’ll fall off a stepping stall and break your other leg and then be out of commission for a couple of months. If your crippled leg can make it up a stepping stool.”
House jumped back in chair, clutching his heart. “Someone’s been practising their comebacks in the mirror.”
“And you don’t?”
House tapped his temple. “Au naturel, Wonder Boy. I don’t glue my friend's face to the mirror and relive all the arguments I’ve lost to him.”
“You think that’s bad, wait until you hear about my dartboard with your picture on it.”
House grinned. “All I’m hearing is a man who thinks about me way too much to have married three women.”
A sly smile crept onto Wilson’s face. House internally cheered. Wilson was coming back to him. “All I’m seeing is a man who hears wedding bells every time he thinks about me.”
“I stood next to those bells at your last two weddings. All I’m hearing are the echos of your past mistakes.”
“You really know how to kick a man while he’s down don’t you?”
House lifted his cane up. “No, not really. I’m more of a hitter nowadays.”
“I can never win with you, can I?”
House got back to stuffing his face with the last bits of his meal (and the corner of Wilson’s toast). “Tell it to the man in the mirror.”
Wilson’s jaw fell open as he fumbled for a retort. To Wilson’s rescue, one of the staff members bounded over to their table. Her name badge read ‘manager’ and a name that House was neither going to read nor remember. She smiled sickeningly politely with her hands clasped in front of her crotch like choir singers and mustered her best condescending customer service voice.
“Sir’s, we have had several complaints about your behaviour dining with us tonight and are asking you to leave.”
Wilson’s face flushed bright red. A flip switched inside of him and he started stacking up their dirty plates into a pile while muttering apologies about ‘how sorry we are’ and ‘let us get out your hair right away, we truly are sorry’, all while scowling over at House as he kept interrupting with ‘who said ‘we’? I’m not sorry for anything. That woman has it out for me’.
House chuckled to himself as Wilson’s expressions crossed from pure disgust and anger to his sweet, sorry-to-tell-you-this-but-you’re-dying oncology smiles with the distortion and caricatured nature of Jim Carrey’s, ‘The Mask’.
Wilson jumped to his feet and kept his head averted to the ground to ward off the stares of literally everyone in the restaurant. Oh wait, that wasn’t true. Someone’s grandpa was sleeping with his head tilted in the opposite direction.
House rose leisurely, brushing off his slacks. As he got to his feet, he pumped his fist up in the air and screamed, “You won’t get away with this! You may have won the battle, but we’ll be back and when we do, we’ll nuclear bomb your faces off.” Grandpa woke up with a jolt. The couple across from them shared similar open-mouthed stares and drooling disbelief.
Then House threw Wilson’s last slice of toast at their snitching table neighbours and yelled, “Run, Wilson, run!" before fleeing out the door as fast as his cane allowed.
Naturally, Wilson stayed behind to pay the bill. Little goodie-two-shoes, pushover.
“That might be the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me.” Wilson groaned as he all but slithered under the console of the passenger seat.
“Really, cause I thought that time you got your dick stuck on that-”
Wilson stuck his fingers in his ears. “La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la.”
House rolled down the window and shouted, “I thought that time you got your dick stuck on a frozen lamppost trying to take a piss and I sent the picture in a companywide email was pretty embarrassing.”
A family and a group of college kids walked past their car.
“All that shrinkage did not do you justice either.” House yelled.
The father blocked his daughter’s ears and pushed them to walk away faster. The girls in the group hid their laughs behind their hands.
“I hate you.”
“That’s a false conclusion. If we take a closer look at the events, I think you’ll find I had nothing to do with your popsicle dick. What you meant to have said was you hate yourself because of the actions you took that night to end up in such a compromising position.”
“You were the one who posted the pictures to everybody! My assistant couldn’t look me in the eyes for nearly a month.”
“You’re the one who tried to get off with Frosty the Lamppost."
“If I recall correctly,” Wilson squinted at House and jabbed his finger in his chest, “which I do, you dragged me to that bar and got me shitfaced.”
“It’s not my fault you’re a lightweight.”
Wilson crossed his arms like a frustrated housewife and grumbled to the windscreen, “Nothing’s ever your fault, is it?”
“Now you’re getting it,” House said, much to Wilson’s annoyance.
House drove them both back to Wilson’s place, catching glances at Wilson out of the corner of his eye to gauge the damage. While his rumpled and stained clothes did very little in the way of returning Wilson to his ship-sharp, presentable self, the elevation of his shoulders and his slight smile promised the return of some normality.
His neck no longer hid inside his body. Wilson’s alertness to the world around him twitched at his ears and flickered in his pupils. He paid attention to his surroundings by fiddling with the radio and trying to catch House in the act of watching him instead of staring numbly ahead in a world of his own.
The energy and passion of which Wilson argued with House was a huge improvement from just a few days ago. Cuddy nearly fired House with the number of ridiculous ideas he conjured up trying to get Wilson out of his head to talk some sense into him. Wilson barely batted an eye when House told him he wanted to inject his patient with pig semen to combat his kidney failure. That wasn’t even a thing and Wilson just nodded along like he asked him about the weather!
Wilson took one look at his patient’s files House replaced with pictures of STD’s and took a nap on the couch in his office. That deserved retaliation, or at least one of his hands-on-hips telling offs about wasting everyone’s time and being an all-around dick.
Wilson didn’t even scold House when he kicked the door open to his office and fell onto his couch to discuss the latest monster truck rally while one of his patients cried into her hands over Wilson’s desk. Usually Wilson gave him an earful over ‘disrespecting patient privacy’, or whatever he called it, but this time he just nodded along to his patient as his eyes stared right through her and his eager-to-comfort hands remained tucked against his body.
But during their dinner, Wilson actually cared about what the people in the restaurant thought of him. He got embarrassed and apologetic about their behaviour, his appearance, and for causing a fuss. The Wilson of the past week would have let the woman at the table next to him stomp on his chest and stab his eyes out with a fork and he would have lay there making googly eyes at the ceiling while his own thoughts of self-hatred trapped him in his head with no escape. Tonight, Wilson made reasonable decisions powered by rational thought. No more feeling sorry for himself, no more letting House do whatever he wanted (actually, that might not be a good thing now that he thought about it…), and no more getting consumed by his depression.
Wilson’s spark was returning.
Unfortunately, as the endorphins of their night wore off, Wilson started sinking back into himself.
He trudged up to his apartment building on iron legs. From House's spot by the driver’s door as he got out his cane and locked up the car, the dark turned Wilson’s fight to the front door into Quasimodo trying to walk on melted tar.
It took House all of ten seconds to limp to his side.
And all of zero seconds and Wilson’s terrible reflexes to stab him in the side with his cane.
“What the hell was that for?”
“You’re being all doom and gloom. You’re going to frighten the hookers away.”
“I don’t invite hookers to my apartment.”
House brushed his clothes and shivered. “But you’re getting all your sadness on me. You’re infectious, Wilson. You need to be cured before you drive all the hookers out of the city.”
Wilson rolled his eyes. “Oh, and I suppose the high and mighty Doctor House is coming to my rescue?”
House decided Wilson was taking far too long slothing it to the door and stole the keys right out of hand to unlock it himself. “Yes, count yourself lucky to have such a generous friend.”
Wilson shouted something along the lines of ‘give those back!’, ‘fine, just invite yourself in like you always do’ and ‘your treatment isn’t working. I’m feeling even worse’ as House rummaged around for a beer.
As Wilson finally came through his own front door- Jesus, had he stopped to count the blades of grass outside?- House grabbed his wrist and tugged him over to the couch. Wilson stumbled behind him, wiggling like fish out of water but ultimately being too tired and depressed to put up much of a fight.
“Sit,” House demanded, and pointed at the couch.
Wilson stared at him, eyes scrunched up and set firmly on House as he rounded the living room to sit down. Before he did, being a dramatic, untrustworthy bastard, he poked and prodded at the couch with the tv remote, even going so far as to flip the cushions for upturned, rusted nails or whatever devious thing House managed to plant under his ass between grabbing his keys and Wilson walking through the door.
“No cream pies, no whoopie cushions. That’s…promising.”
“The real prank is the psychological stress of not pulling a prank on you.” House said. Which would actually be a very good idea for a prank.
Wilson sat himself down, sinking into the cushions until they devoured him whole. House handed him his beer and turned on the TV for him. He flipped the channels until he found some house renovation show to keep Wilson occupied. The suspicious tilt of his brows remained stuck to his face but eventually the polka dot wallpaper being hotly debated by the gayest heterosexual couple House had ever seen caught Wilson's attention (maybe because the hideous designs closely resembled Wilson’s ties?) and House left him to sip his beer in peace.
As Sandy and Kim (who was the woman and who was the man was unclear) argued over whether or not the drapes should be floor length or two inches off the ground (something House never considered to be an arguable topic at all), Wilson kept himself occupied by following along with their design choices.
Well, Wilson might have been thinking about his house decor opinions rather than voicing them out loud if his numb-to-the-world stare through the TV and closed-lipped frown was any indication, or he may have been day-dreaming about diving into the Hudson river. The grimace of internal pain may have been directed towards the Santa Claus-vomit pattern of red and green Sandy and Kim chose for the lounge or because of general depression and self-hatred.
House counted every second Wilson sat on the couch not actively searching for razor blades or kitchen cleaner as a good sign regardless of whether he actually paid attention to the TV.
Confident that Sandy, Kim, and Wilson’s own mind would keep him company, House slipped into the kitchen and started on the mound of dishes rotting over his counter. He peeked out from the hallway to keep tabs on Wilson between washing, drying, and scowling down at his bung leg but Wilson stayed seated in the same spot with the same mopey slouch as he left him; numb, looking constipated, and disassociating in front of Kim and Sandy now shaking their heads over the shade of white the decorator picked out for the hallway walls (ivory instead of baby powder) which seemingly did not match the cool undertones of the white in the kitchen, whatever that meant.
If his depression didn’t kill him, the show would knock him out just as fast. Dead by a manufactured heart attack from the stress of the overdramatization of regular life. One day Wilson would pick the wrong coloured mug for his coffee and stop functioning from the stress. At least House figured that was how Sandy and Kim would cark it.
House deposited another beer in front of Wilson who gave him a small smile a beat too late before drifting back to that silently loud place in his head.
House spun back around to assess the rest of Wilson’s depression mess. He followed the rotten, B.O. stench to the overflowing laundry hamper. For the state of his clothes to get this bad meant Wilson’s depression really consumed him this time around. Wilson usually adorned a pretty decent cologne (usually earthy or woodsy, to overcompensate for his not-so-masculine hair products and puppy-dog eyes that cut any sharp edge he tried to whittle.
All of his fancy colognes came from prospective sexual partners (eg. his nurses and dying patients with no better way to spend their money) and from a drawer of gifts he had accumulated over the years from hospital donors, thankful families, and absent wives with nothing better to think of getting him for birthdays and Christmases. Wilson never spent a dime on smelling good.
The current state of Wilson's bedroom begged to differ. No stranger to bad smells, both autopsies and the general state of his own living quarters, House simply got to work. He lugged the basket into the laundry room in the basement of the apartment complex and used the quarters he stole from Wilson’s wallet to put on three loads of washing.
He came back up to the apartment to check on Wilson (still semi-comatose) and sort out the pile of clean laundry lying dormant over the chairs at his dining room table. House didn’t bother with folding; Wilson didn’t pay for the maid service, just the friend discount. He just shoved them into their corresponding drawers; socks with partners be damned.
Then House took out the trash and relined the rubbish bin, changed Wilson’s bedding (which suffered from the same B.O. problem as the laundry), and transferred the wet clothes into the dryers.
By the time he got to ridding the coffee table of all of its crap, Wilson had drifted sideways to lay on the couch. On closer inspection, he had fallen asleep. His empty beer teetered on the edge of the couch where he half wedged it under his leg and in the fold of where the couch cushions met.
House rolled his eyes as he nudged a pillow under Wilson’s head and draped the blanket from the back of the couch over him.
He drew the line at clothes and shoes though. Wilson was a grown man, if he wanted to sleep in his jimmy-jams he would put on his own jimmy-jams. Okay, so maybe House untied his shoelaces and at that stage he figured it wasn’t that difficult of a step to take Wilson's shoes off and his buttons for his shirt were right there, so he loosened the collar to let him breath.
But that was it!
House only went the extra mile for brownie points. He needed Wilson on his side the next time Cuddy tried to recruit him for clinic duty.
House finished off the laundry. He collected the dry clothes from the basement and stuffed them into drawers. While House seldom gave a shit about cleanliness, he did take a step back to admire his work. Then he snapped a picture onto his phone to remind Wilson later on that he owed him one after his selfless deeds (not selfless though as he only helped Wilson for his own selfish gain).
He also took a picture on Wilson’s phone and made it his home screen. This was House’s good act of the century. He really had to milk the sympathy out of Wilson for it. Starting with constantly shoving it in his face.
Pleased with his lifetime supply of annoying Wilson and discounted membership to having Wilson fuss after him as the world intended, House nabbed himself a beer from Wilson’s fridge, nudged Wilson’s feet up to fit on the couch, and flicked on the TV to a showing of ‘Speed’. Good enough.
As a last minute thought, House called up Cuddy and told her answering machine Wilson was suffering from explosive diarrhoea and would not be coming in to work tomorrow lest he inflict such suffering upon his dying patients. Then he drank another beer for being such a kind and thoughtful friend.
He finished ‘Speed’, got through the last half of a straight-to-DVD movie that was basically an ‘ET’ rip-off and finished with a chaser of ‘South Park’ reruns. Sometime in the early hours of the morning, Wilson stirred in his sleep. House poked him to wakefulness. Wilson waddled off for a piss. House directed him to his own bed and disconnected his alarm. Wilson fell back to sleep before he hit the pillow.
House followed right behind him after spreading out along the couch.