Chapter Text
Day 1
Wilson just… he just couldn't anymore. After three wives and a dead girlfriend there had to be a problem here. Not with his friendships, although he'd blamed House a million times it just couldn't be that. Most women are able to put up with their husband's best friend. Amber did, somehow. It wasn't the women either. Amber was…well she was brilliant and calculating and just... Julie was… well she was sensitive he guessed. The other two? he barely remembered anymore. Still, they were all so different, such boldly contrasting individuals. The only link had been him. He had failed them, something must be wrong with him. Of course he didn't tell anyone this theory, Cuddy was his boss, Foreman was a good friend but not the kind of man you talk to about emotions, and House? Well, House was…
Almost as if on cue the sharp knock of a cane throwing his door open rang out around his office. He almost forgot he was still at work, most definitely forgot how long he'd been here.
“Forty three year old man, presenting with fatigue, nausea and vomiting only present before noon, and cravings for pickles with peanut butter,”
House nearly sang as he limped into the room. The limp was worse than usual but Wilson elected to ignore that for the time being.
“Forty three year old man?”
Wilson questioned, trying to fix his hair as quickly as possible.
“What, were you expecting a woman?”
House questioned, he seemed to be acting normal despite the way he dug his knuckles into his leg.
“Well yes, I'm assuming you want me to say those are all signs of pregnancy?”
Wilson almost questioned. This couldn't be a case of his, he talked as if he already had it solved. And it most definitely wasn't cancer, so why did he barge in here? Wilson spared a glance at the window, it was dark which didn't exactly mean much. It could be seven or near midnight.
“They are, and would you ever guess what the pregnancy test said?”
House asked, although they both already knew the answer.
“Negative?”
Wilson asked, choosing the obviously wrong answer or else this would be just another clinic case that he'd write off as useless.
“Positive! It's like the second coming… except he's Jewish- and a man. So then is it the first or seventh?”
Wilson sighed deeply, he couldn't do this today. Honestly he couldn't do this most days but especially today.
“House, I'd love to know how you cracked the case of the Virgin Mark but I have to get home.”
“Home to our house? Why don't I come along? It'll be a blast.”
Wilson wanted to dig nails into that smile. Watch skin tear under heavy, cold spikes of iron-
“I need some alone time, I had a rough day-”
“Oh, did little Lucy die of leukemia? So sad,”
House mocked, he was trying to get a rise out of him. Wilson couldn't let him win. He rose from his seat, taking his coat off the rack and brushing past House.
“Or did you maybe tell mommy and daddy she'd be A-Okay right before she flatlined?”
Wilson turned around, and swung. He didn't even aim, the world spun around him as he heard knuckles hit bone. Jaw, he'd punched House in the jaw. House stumbled back but didn't fall, his crystal blue eyes looked up at the other man’s. His pupils were pinpricks, for a fraction of a second he even looked… afraid.
That didn't even happen, no one died today. Nothing bad happened, well nothing worse than usual. It was just a terrible day for Wilson. He spent all day snapping between rage and guilt and depression all through the shift. Wilson knew exactly why, what he was more shocked by was that House didn't seem to know.
There were no snide remarks snarled from House's lips, no serious tone or semblance of anything. He put his free hand to his jaw, he didn't wince when he pressed against it.
“You hit like a girl,”
He remarked, although his face didn't wear a grin. He didn't move either, didn't limp away at a lightning pace. Wilson should've folded; instead, he raised knowing full well House had a royal flush.
Wilson was shaking all over, he knew he was shaking because of a million different reasons but the one House could probably smell on him was the drugs. Hah, this was so stupid. The addict sniffed out the symptoms of his enabling best friend. This wasn't going to be good, and yet Wilson knew he couldn't run. House lived with him, and if he went to a motel House would track him down.
So they both stood in the doorway, both completely and entirely still. They heard a set of footsteps approach, it was probably just some nurse… except it was late. So late only the night staff and House's team would still be around. Wilson breathed a sigh of relief as he caught a glimpse of scrubs in his peripheral vision. That relief was shattered when that stupidly familiar accent rang out down the hall.
“House, we ran the echo and- I'm… I'm interrupting, aren't I?”
A familiar blonde-haired man asked as he came up beside Wilson. Of all people, Chase was by far the worst one to stumble across this. Foreman would make them talk it out the same way Cuddy would, Cameron would rush off then go track them both down individually afterwards, but Chase? He'd do what he always did.
“I-I’ll be back in the office, you two clean up here,”
Chase assured, turning on his heels and rushing off, leaving the two of them alone again.
“Well… sounds like you have a case to solve so I'll take my-”
“No you won't, not until we're finished,”
House said matter-of-factly, all the mocking cheer drained from his voice. Wilson sighed deeply and walked back into his office, closing the door behind him. Wilson kept his back pressed to the door, close to the escape route. House cornered him into it so he could barely weasel his way out even if he did get the door open.
“You reek of cigarettes, you're in the hospital still despite the fact it's nearing eleven, and you're shaking. Now, what does that picture tell us?”
House mocked, although his voice stayed one level tone. He waited, he wanted Wilson to answer. He sighed deeply, wrapping his fingers around his wrists to try and keep grounded. The last thing Wilson wanted to do was punch him again.
“Nicotine addiction, the most blatant signs in the book,”
Wilson shrugged, throwing his arms out to the side in defeat.
“Your nose is running, and despite the fact you've been here hours you didn't fall asleep at your desk,”
House pressed, those eyes were terrifying as they inched closer to him. It felt like being a caged animal, Wilson had to run, he could, but that wouldn't solve this.
“I did a boatload of cocaine during my shift!”
Wilson spat out, curling into himself as House pressed ever closer.
“No you didn't, you wouldn't.”
“I did.”
“You're just trying to distract me.”
“No I'm not- go check the red book on my desk.”
House hesitated, then turned and began to limp towards the desk. This was his shot. Wilson sprinted, hopped over the couch in the middle of his office and broke out onto the shared balcony. The rushed tap of his loafers against the concrete wasn't a sound he was all that used to hearing. Wilson burst through the door into House’s office, meeting the gaze of all three of his employees. Chase looked bewildered, Cameron concerned, and Foreman…looked like Foreman.
“Dr. Wilson?”
Cameron questioned, nearly dropping her cup of coffee all over herself.
“Do not indulge House,”
He warned before rushing through the room and out the door. The world spun as he sprinted down to the elevators. House was nowhere in sight, he'd managed to trick the untrickable doctor house. He let out a weak laugh, he was so dead.
Day 2
Wilson got up at five in the morning and drove off to work before House could bug him. House must've solved that case because he hadn't shown up all day. Wilson sat sifting through a new article on some groundbreaking new leukemia treatment. It was interesting, but not very promising. Too much was theory, too much was hope. A soft knock came at the door.
“Come in,”
He called out, since it wasn't the snap of a cane against the wood. Slowly a familiar face creaked the door open.
“Chase?”
Wilson questioned, he looked… Meek, honestly. Chase closed the door softly behind him before approaching. He had a file tucked under his arm, but he couldn't possibly have another case already.
“I know I don't really know you as well as the others but I need to tell you something, before they find out,”
Chase nearly whispered, leaning over Wilson's desk with both palms digging into the sharp edges. He looked serious, more serious than Wilson had seen him in weeks.
“I know we've been asked to spy on you before for stupid bets and that was all in good fun but, I think this is an invasion of privacy… I think the case House just gave us… I think it's you,”
Chase explained as he handed Wilson a file. He flicked it open to the first page. The name was blacked out as well as personal details but that was Wilson's blood type, and age, and those were definitely his therapist's records House had managed to scrounge from God knows where.
Wilson didn't know what to say, so he just nodded to Chase. It all made sense, why House stayed home, why he didn't track him down. It was so…House. Chase backed up and was about to leave but turned over his shoulder with his hand still on the knob.
“Cameron's probably going to come check on you. She talked all night about how weird you were being. Don't tell her I was here, alright?”
“Alright, thanks Chase.”
Wilson nodded, biting down on his lower lip. Chase nodded in return, then left.
Wilson flipped through the file anxiously, what had House dug up? Oh God, was that his STD screening from when he started seeing Amber? Were those his personal emails to his GP and Psychologist? Christ, this was serious, this wasn't a joke. Seriously? That's how House decided to deal with this? This was insane, even for him. Wilson wasn't his puzzle, he was fine.
“He's doing what?”
Cuddy asked, putting the phone down onto the receiver.
“He has all my files, he's trying to make me into his new case,”
Wilson explained, throwing his arms out to the side in exasperation.
“Are you sure? Why would he do that?”
Cuddy asked, she seemed a little stunned but less than he would've liked.
“These are my records. It has my private emails, the reports of my annual check up for the last three years, and it has my STD screening in it!”
“Okay, I understand. I'll see what I can do,”
She sighed, pinching her nose bridge. She didn't seem very eager to stop this invasion of his personal documentation.
“You seriously can't be letting him do this. Its-”
“Look, he's your best friend and as long as he's not planning on drilling into your skull it isn't my biggest problem here. He's practically your soulmate, he probably knows everything about you already,”
She said with a roll of her eyes. She picked the phone back up and began dialing a number. Wilson guessed that was the end of that, he had to play this game just as hard as House or risk every skeleton tumbling out of his closet. Most would think hiding things from House was difficult, but to Wilson? It was second nature. All you needed to do was create a smoke screen, hide the large issues with small ones that all lead up to a medium sized one. Wilson guessed another smoke screen was in order.
Day 3
The park was nice, it was a break from the white walls, buzzing lights, and blaring alarms of the hospital. He breathed in the fresh air, until the fresh air started to smell more like that stupid perfume. She only wore it because Chase liked it, they both knew that. Wilson opened his eyes, unsurprisingly, Cameron. She came and sat down next to him, she wasn't wearing a coat. It rubbed Wilson the wrong way, it was cold outside, wasn't it? She sighed and handed him a cup, one of the ones for urine tests.
“House told me to get this, do whatever you want with it, just make it yellow,”
Cameron sighed, looking out into the park.
“So you figured it out?”
“Everyone did, he forgot to censor the name Amber in the emails,”
“And you're going along with it?”
“It's stupid, but his therapist said he needed puzzles and I like doing this better than well… the alternative.”
“Yeah, you're not wrong,”
Wilson sighed, pinching his nose bridge, that headache was back and it was back with a vengeance. He would pull out a cigarette to try and dull it but Cameron was here so he got no relief.
“Can you do something for me?”
Wilson asked, fishing something out of his pocket. He pulled out a small box with a receipt taped on. Cameron looked more than a little shocked.
“Is that?”
“No, but it is a pair of earrings. Go tuck it into my bag when you are inevitably asked to search my office. The white power is fake, by the way,”
Wilson explained, pushing the little box into the palm of her hand.
“Sure, just get me that yellow liquid by the end of the day, maybe keep it human though,”
She smiled softly, getting up from the bench.
“Have a good day, Cameron,”
“You too, and maybe check your desk lamp when you get back,”
She hinted with a smile. With a wave or two she was off, leaving him in peace once again. As soon as she was out of his sight he lit a cigarette, he knew he'd need it for the rest of today.
Wilson had found the bug in his lamp, and under his chair, and in his copy of Into The Looking Glass that sat on the edge of his desk. He also found his white powder missing, or well, the decoy. He was somewhat truthful last night, he had been doing stimulants over his shift. They were just hidden well, in the old prescription bottles for his antidepressants. He sat down at his desk and took the bottle out of his drawer, he ate one of the pills and washed it down with cold coffee that still sat in his cup. Adderall, a perfectly normal dosage just to help him through his days. The antidepressants had killed the depression, sure, but they also killed his energy. So, why not take a stimulant to counteract it? Not nearly as much as that one time House slipped amphetamines into his coffee but enough to work, enough to feel bad if he missed a day or two.
Dr. James Wilson never saw himself as a man of mystery, usually at least. Now that people were searching through his things he did, just a little. To him, these secrets were well hidden for a reason. After all, Cuddy wouldn't want two drugged department heads in her hospital. And no one wanted to know what Wilson hid, so no one asked. They knew he didn't have luck in love, they knew he was soft hearted and a little too forgiving, and they knew he was good at his job. Really, that was all they needed to know. All anyone needed to know about him. They didn't need to know about that stupid stint during his teen years, the thing that drove his brother away. They didn't need to see those old medical records he had sealed from then. They didn't need to know about the twenty notebooks he burned out on his front lawn before he went to Uni. They didn't need to know about the leather-bound notebook he kept in the back of his book shelf. The fact that this was the time of day he usually fished it out. Just after his lunch break. He found the key in his keyring, it was easily mistaken for a lockbox or a mailbox key. He used it to click open the lock on the book. It looked like one of those children's diary ones but it was custom made to only fit the one key he possessed. He then flipped to the current page, he'd made it through nearly half the book. Then he scribbled down some words, some numbers, nothing major. Then he closed the book and relocked it. Then he shoved it right back where it belonged. And then it was finished. He took a seat at his desk like nothing had happened, nothing secret or wrong. In all reality, James Wilson was a man of mystery, he just didn't know that yet.
As soon as Wilson unlocked his door, something was wrong. He smelled herbs and spices, and not the kind from takeaway curry. It was real home cooking, House was cooking? He'd stopped at least a month ago. So why tonight? Although Wilson already knew the answer to that question. He knew it because his grocery receipts were missing. Including the monthly shop of things House didn't know about, the receipt he usually burned as soon as he got. But it was raining that day, so he'd shoved it in his pocket with everything else. And someone had dug it up. If his memory served this month was one of the better ones. Vitamins, Caffeine pills, a couple of products labeled diet or skinny, and the liquor he kept in his closet. It was one of the cleanest he'd had in a while, usually they were a lot more… telling. If he was lucky House would've written it off, but from the smell in the kitchen Wilson knew he hadn't. House couldn't write anything off, leave anything be. Wilson threw his coat over the couch and was almost able to slip into his office without drawing attention.
“Oh honey, you're home. Isn't it so nice to see you,”
House mocked, his voice high pitched and ear shredding. Wilson barely allowed himself a look at House. He was in a pink frilly apron, it looked ridiculous.
“I didn't know you had a thing for crossdressing,”
Wilson commented, slinking into the kitchen to watch House cook. He was cooking something genuinely delicious, until Wilson saw the at least three tablespoons of olive oil House dumped in haphazardly. It was no longer nearly as appetizing.
“Maybe I've been a transvestite all along and you just never caught on,”
House proposed, stirring the pot. It was soup, Wilson thought, until House shifted enough to reveal that was only the sauce for pasta. Wilson wrapped his fingers around his wrist, then his forearm, then touched his collarbones, then did it over again two more times. House kept his back turned entirely but Wilson was sure he knew. Somehow, he knew. Although House had always called him stupid for doing that, doing grounding exercises. Unfortunately, now House had been through enough therapy to know those are not normal grounding exercises.
“You weren't at work today,”
Wilson commented, trying to strike up any kind of conversation to make him feel less like tearing his skin off.
“I've been busy, I spent all morning shopping, then I got a mani-pedi, then I started on prepping dinner, then took a break to get lobotomized, and now you're home before I've had even a moment to spare,”
House mocked, it was so intense and obvious that it left a bad taste in Wilson's mouth.
The taste of blood, alcohol, and Vicodin.
“No case?”
Wilson asked, crossing back into the living room to take a seat. Standing hurt his knees too much after a full day of work.
“It usually takes a few weeks for Cuddy to throw me a new case. Until then, it's just clinic duty, I think it's her way of taking out her sexual frustration on me.”
Wilson let out a small chuckle at that one, not exactly one of amusement but one of acknowledgement. They sat in dull silence for a while, just the thick popping bubbles of sauce and the scrape of utensils on pans. Eventually, after probably fifteen minutes, House hobbled out with two plates, handing one to Wilson. They usually only ate together if Wilson cooked for both of them or when they shared pizza and beer. Those were fun nights when Wilson made sure to put something extra into his own cans.
“This looks amazing, House.”
“Oh come on, it's almost like you forgot about the quail eggs,”
House jeered, turning on the TV. It was some action movie they'd turned on halfway through. The sound of gunshots and tires squealing against pavement was just too much. House flicked the channel again, news, boring. Then sports, usually boring. Finally, a monster truck derby. It was reruns, but neither were complaining. They both settled on this channel; it satisfied House's lust for destruction and Wilson's love for debate over who would win scenarios. Wilson winced, remembering those times where he and Kutner got into quite the spirited debates over those scenarios. He was just too good for this world.
“Backwards Bob is gonna get stomped by Western renegade, that thing is built like a tank,”
House commented, mouth full of pasta. It was obvious he was forcing conversation, Wilson didn't mind.
“But Backwards Bob is faster, it'll win the race at least,”
Wilson countered, mostly moving the food around his plate evasively.
“Western renegade is so much cooler and you know it.”
“I'm not talking about coolness, I'm saying who's going to win.”
“that's the same thing,”
House scoffed, getting up from his seat. Wilson looked at him oddly but didn't stop him. He returned with two glasses of wine, actually decent wine.
“Are you about to propose to me?”
Wilson joked as he took the glass from House.
“Maybe I am, I'm your perfect wife.”
They both laughed at that one, House taking a seat ever so slightly closer to Wilson. House finished his food a while after, Wilson had barely gotten halfway. Although he had already gotten nearly halfway through the wine. House got up and let his plate clatter loudly in the sink, it was a signal. Hurry or issues would come. Wilson seemed fine, engrossed in the television, leaned back in his seat. But no calm person would be bouncing their leg so violently it rattled the glasses on the coffee table. Wilson barely managed to finish it by the time the show ran to its end. House cleared the plate wordlessly. He was walking more than normal. He wasn't in any less pain, Wilson knew that. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that he was ever so slightly better.
“Is that not your favorite anymore?”
House questioned as he rinsed the dishes.
“When did I ever tell you that was my favorite?”
Wilson questioned, he'd barely even tasted the food.
“You always ordered it whenever we went to an Italian place,”
House commented, placing the plates into the dishwasher.
“Do I?”
“You did.”
The room fell silent, the fuzzy noise of whatever was playing on the TV rumbling just beneath the surface. Wilson let out a long sigh, hoping some of his anxiety would fade with the air. 3 tablespoons was near 300, that was for a decent portion of sauce, at least six servings. That means it was only 50 extra per plate. And it wasn't pasta, it was gnocchi, which was around 450 for that serving. The sauce was pesto, so without the oil it was close to 150. That means in whole it was only about 660, 780 with the wine. Which wasn't terrible, only because he hadn't had anything all day because of the paranoia.
Wilson got up from the couch, wandering into his study. This was just a minor setback, entirely worth what it proved. It proved that he was fine.