Chapter Text
“You know, where we really should’ve gone is the strip club,” House remarks, leaning back in his chair. He keeps fidgeting the edge of the menu with his thumb, thwap thwap thwap thwap against the plastic. Even with his face half-buried in his hands, Wilson has an easy time hearing it.
God, he’s so tired.
All he really wants to do is climb into his bed and not come out for a week. He can’t remember the last time he’s eaten. Logically, he should be getting some terrible hunger pangs right now... but he just isn't hungry. He doesn't even want to be here, but House suggested it, and Wilson put up only an ounce of fight before House started wrestling his coat onto his back. Wilson doesn't know how House manages to get what he wants all the time.
“That’d cheer you up,” and oh good, he’s not letting the strip club thing go.
“Yeah, that’d scan well. Doctor loses cancer patient, immediately heads to strip club.”
“Please, that’s the most valid reason you could have to go to a strip club. I just go for the girls.” House puts the menu down with a slap that seems much louder than it should be. Finally, Wilson pulls his face away from his hands and blearily looks around. The cafe is mostly empty, the music is mostly muted, and Wilson is mostly ready to pass out where he sits.
Why is he here? He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to be out among people. Then again, if he stood up and left right now, he wouldn’t go home – he’d go back to his office. And that’s a place he wants to be less, somehow. Wilson wasn't sure what's worse: piles of work or the knowledge that you should be managing your piles of work?
He catches sight of himself in the window. Bloodshot eyes, deep bags underneath. Wilson is pretty sure that he lost a noticeable amount of weight in the past week, which tracks with what he remembers, actually. He looks wrecked.
He feels wrecked.
“Think you should get your hamburger blue,” House remarks. “You look like you need the iron. Tell them to put the blood in a to-go cup."
Nothing sounds appealing, but he also doesn’t trust himself to read the menu. He can’t really get his eyes to focus all that well. All the letters and pictures swirl around him when he tries to narrow down, and fine, it's a burger joint, how hard can it be? When the waitress comes around, he orders a hamburger medium-rare and a side of fries. House orders the same, and a strawberry milkshake on top of it. God, the idea of eating anything sweet right now kills him. He's getting a stomachache on House's behalf.
“When’s the last time you left the hospital? I think those overhead lights are bleaching you out. You know, they really should put a tanning salon in there somewhere. Great for hospital business – Cuddy would love that – and if they put it right next to the oncology department, that’s much shorter to walk for all your newly-created melanomas.”
Somewhere in the midst of all his jokes is a genuine question, Wilson thinks, or maybe House just likes hearing himself talk. Maybe both.
“Yesterday, sometime.” That's a goddamn lie. Lying to House is always a gamble, depending on how sharp he is. Wilson sprinkles in an unnecessary detail to make it believable. “Day before, maybe, I-I had to pick up some stuff from home.”
“Uh-huh."
Even if his eyes aren't totally cooperating right now, he can still see the way House narrows his. Great, House is feeling sharp on a day where Wilson is as dull as a basketball. He sighs. "Look, a patient of mine was - she needed - I didn't want to be far away."
"Your patient was dying. She's dead. That's why we're here right now."
He hates that House says it aloud, so flippantly. He hates that it affects him so bad, like House has driven a dagger straight into his chest. Hates that House can't cut him a god-damn break even now. Still, he resolves not to let House feel superior. Wilson tries to pull himself together. Leaning back into the chair until he can hear the wood protest, he folds his arms behind his neck and shuts his eyes. One long, slow exhale through his nose. Maybe he should take up yoga.
“She shouldn’t have died," Wilson mutters.
“See, the thing about an 85% survival rate is the troubling 15% of the time where it doesn’t work. Anything above fifty, and people think it’s a sure thing. Chance, right. That’s why you should start pushing the numbers down, that way you’ll stave off the disappointment and make people think you’re some wunderkind –”
“House, please shut the hell up,” he requests quietly. No, the dagger isn’t in his chest, it’s pressing into his temples. House usually has a way of inspiring that, but this time, Wilson suspects it's all internal. Almost like a hangover, but he hasn't had any liquor for... god, he doesn't know. A week.
No, that’s the only thing that sounds appealing right now. A long, stiff drink. He wonders why House didn’t offer that to him. He’s usually good for boozing him up. Instead, they’re sitting in a burger joint, having lunch. Wilson figures he’s going to pay, which never really bothers him as it should, even though he’s got two alimonies and House has three human contacts in the whole world. There are more numbers for delivery places in his phone than loved ones.
Honestly, House probably just didn’t want to eat at the cafeteria. He figures House forgot about the whole lost-a-patient thing, only remembered as they sat down and House got a good look at his face. Which, honestly, Wilson is pretty grateful for that. He doesn't want to talk about it, least of all with House. Their approaches to patient care are as different as night and day, and he doesn't want to have to argue how yes, I'm sad that a human being I was meant to take care of died isn't a radical position.
House shuts up for about ten seconds. Wilson takes it as a beautiful reprieve.
“That fifteen percent is important –”
“It wasn’t fifteen percent,” he mumbles. “It was two.”
“Well,” House considers. “That two percent is important, too.”
Wilson knows that. Ninety eight doesn’t equal one hundred, there’s always a chance, but. “She was getting better. She was doing really, really well. The tumors were shrinking, her pills were working, and then…”
“And then it suddenly got worse,” House finishes, and that’s about the crux of it. Wilson nods. With his hands folded behind his neck, he can feel the tendons in his neck pull. "What, she come back to the hospital with a minor complaint that wouldn't go away?"
“Yeah. Earlier this week. Past two days has just been… everything crashing. Pulling her back from the edge, thinking it’s a one-off, and then her heart –” Wilson pauses, swallows. “The tumor was in her chest. We got it out, but some of it… it barely even spread, House. It barely reached out.”
“I believe you.”
“Got into an artery. Just… just an avalanche of little clots.”
“Until it became a big clot.”
Which could be treated, of course. They tried to treat it. For days, they tried to treat it, until – well. Suffice to say that the woman died on the operating table with her abdomen practically a swimming pool of blood. Wilson had been there. She had been all over his front, staining long red strips down his gown.
That was this morning, maybe six hours ago. Wilson had just finished the patient file before House came in.
“Look, half the pills she takes have 'clotting' as a side effect,” House tells him. “Really, the tumor was probably in the worst place it could have been. Ticking time bomb, the entire time.”
“What’s your point. What are you saying, I shouldn’t feel bad?”
“No, you shouldn’t.”
“Tough. I lost a patient. I’m going to feel bad, even if I can’t point my finger and say I committed medical malpractice.”
“Don’t slander medical malpractice.”
“Look, House, not all of us are like you, okay?” He continues talking even as the waitress returns, puts hot plates down in front of them. A strawberry milkshake is placed in front of his friend, and House takes a deep, gurgling sip from it. Great. “Some of us remember that our patients walk out and have lives to live at the end of the day. Some of us care that they actually live, that they’re not just a puzzle to be solved. That lady shouldn’t have died, she did, there’s nothing I can do about it, and that’s going to make me feel bad. Sorry if it's cramping your style. ”
House considers, and Wilson can practically feel him rolling the dice about how angry Wilson’s going to get about it. As he usually does, House says it anyway.
“Just doesn’t seem useful.”
What’s he doing here? Why did he agree to do this? He knows he’s not going to get anything approaching sympathy from House, and if this keeps up – which it will keep up, he knows House – then they’re just going to have a fight. Which means that Wilson is going to sleep on the couch of his office tonight having temporarily lost one of his three contacts in the world, too.
(Then again, he's probably going to sleep on the couch of his office tonight anyway.)
He doesn’t want to fight. He’s too tired, too worn out to do it. Fights with House rarely end well, but that doesn’t stop House from picking them.
“I’m just going to –”
“No.” House puts down his milkshake, pushes to the side. He gives a little shoo gesture in Wilson’s direction. “No, no, I’m – I’m sorry. Finish your meal, you gotta eat something.”
Jesus. House, apologizing. That’s rare enough to shock him out of his frustration, out of his reaction to House’s non-sympathy.
“How bad do I look?” He says, with an air of exhausted humor.
“It’s not about how bad you look. You haven’t left the hospital in a week, and you haven’t bought anything in the cafeteria. Which means you’ve been surviving off the trail mix in your office and vending machine fare.” House takes up his milkshake again, curls it close to his chest. “But you do, for the record, look very bad.” He slurps again.
One second, two seconds, three. “Alright, I’ll bite,” he says, picking up his hamburger. It’s warm, at least, and that’s enough – he hasn’t had anything warm in… yeah. Probably about a week, now that House is saying it aloud. Well, no, he's had hot coffee. “You knew I was lying before. How do you know I haven’t left the hospital in a week? Or been to the cafeteria?”
He starts to eat. It’s not bad, as burgers go. Solidly average, with enough pink in the middle to keep the flavor in. Wilson hasn’t ever read any studies on it, but he thinks medical professionals might be more inclined to have their burgers well-done over the rest of the general population. Something about how the human body can really look like undercooked meat if you get into it.
He’s glad he hasn’t gone that far, anyway. Wilson likes a good rare burger.
“Because you've had the same tie on for a long time.” House dips his head. “You keep three changes of clothes in your office at any given time, but you figure a shirt’s going to get less dirty than your tie is. In fact, you can run that bad boy in the bathroom sink without anyone noticing, fresh as new, but you also can’t imagine showing up to work tie-less. Therefore, you’ve been pitching your two unused items of clothing in the hospital laundry while wearing your tie, then just circling the others out. It’s a real Monty Hall problem, that.” He pulls away from the straw again. “And, before you accuse me of memorizing your tie rotation, no. It’s just that you’re wearing a red-striped tie on a green shirt, and it’s nowhere near Christmas. You look like you need some popcorn balls strung on you.”
Wilson looks down. Well… yeah. Okay. That’s absolutely correct, and he hates that it’s correct, but such as it is. He takes another bite of his burger. “And the cafeteria?”
“Slipped the workers a ten to let me know if you showed up.”
Just before the absurdity really sinks in – why on Earth would House want to know if he was eating? House isn’t his mother, even Wilson’s own ex-wives wouldn’t care about that sort of thing – something shifts inside of Wilson’s body. It’s like he can feel his temperature spike in real time, the thermometer raising up and up and concentrating in a hot ball of magma pulsating inside his head. His throat feels like it’s closing up around him, and another symptom leaks out on top of it all.
Maybe he should've stuck with soup.
“I’m going to throw up,” he gags out to House, knocking over the chair in his sudden dash for the bathroom.
He makes it… with plenty of time, evidently, because nothing comes up. Wilson falls on his hands and knees in front of the toilet, dry-gagging hard enough that he can taste the burger back in his throat. Hell, he almost wants to stick a finger down his gullet just to get it up here, just so this horrible nausea can go back down. He can feel his body burning.
But nothing comes. He spits out pure saliva into the toilet water.
Then, because that’s the way his life is going, Wilson’s shoulders slump and he rests his head against the edge of a public bathroom toilet seat.
He hasn’t cried at all during this. So long as his patient was still alive, he didn’t cry. Crying felt like an admission of defeat, like the universe would see his tears and think it’s a good time to snip her strings.
Now, here in this bathroom, Wilson almost does. Almost breaks down. If that happens, he promises himself that he’s not going to go out and confront House. He’s going to stay in here until House gets bored and leaves. Until House gets bored, snags his wallet, pays for lunch, and leaves.
Or… comes in and checks on him. Makes sure that he’s okay. Hard to override that medical impulse, right?
Or, yeah. As much as he wants to pretend that House is an uncaring monster because it frankly saves time, there’s every possibility that House might actually be concerned about him. Might actually want to make sure that he didn't have an aneurysm or allergic reaction in the bathroom of a burger joint.
It’s that thought that finally makes Wilson rise to his feet and stumble out of the bathroom stall. He grips either side of the sink basin, stares into the mirror.
His eyes squint. Like House does, he regards himself in a coolly analytical fashion.
Wilson worried that House would notice. This isn’t House’s area… but it’s not not his area. And, as he stares at himself in the mirror, Wilson has to admit that he might’ve been worrying over nothing. There’s no obvious signs written over his face anymore, none of those tell-tale little indicators every doctor has to be on the watch for. If there are any visible symptoms, they’re easily masked underneath everything else: the exhaustion, the bloodshot eyes, splotchy skin. No, it should be well out of his system, he didn't take a particularly high dose.
Besides, House would’ve brought it up by now. He probably would’ve mocked him for it.
No, he’s fine. He just needs to get through this lunch, and… and he doesn’t want to go home, exactly, but he needs to sleep. He can grab a few hours at home without feeling like the world was crashing down around him, right? Besides, he doesn't want to be at the hospital while he's sick. Some doctors - House included - do, but for God's sake, he works in oncology. The kingdom of ruptured immune systems.
Wilson washes off his face with a paper towel, stares at himself in the mirror.
That didn’t make it better. Great. Well –
He walks out of the bathroom to find House standing by their table, one hand on his cane. There’s two to-go boxes next to him. House is now drinking his milkshake out of a styrofoam cup, and his eyes never leave Wilson as he staggers out of the bathroom. The bill is nowhere to be seen, which means...
Great. You know, somehow, this makes Wilson feels worse.
“I’m okay,” he says when he approaches House, almost apologetically. “Just – I don’t know. Maybe it didn’t sit right with me.”
House doesn’t say anything at first, just continues sipping on his shake.
“Look, I’ll drive you back to the hospital – I-I don’t know, I just think I need to sleep this off.”
He releases his straw with a pop. “You know, it’s funny,” he considers, “How the human body will reject food when it needs it most. I mean, forget not eating, you get too tired and your body decides to make everything come back up.”
“I’m – I’m not starving, House. I’ve been eating. Don't be dramatic.”
"Me? No."
Though not much. And… yeah, now that Wilson considers it, that might very well be the reason everything started to come back up. Only eating salted trail mix for a week and then tucking into a burger? Might not have been his finest idea. “Let’s just go. Um, thanks,” he says, scooping the boxes into his bag. They’ll keep until the hospital. House has a tendency to store things in the specimen fridge. Wilson is going to make sure he doesn't do that.
House just shrugs his shoulders, pops the straw back into his mouth and sucks. He really must get an infernal joy from that.
God, it’s so bright when they step outside. Wilson has to squint, putting an arm up to shield himself from the sun. The world briefly divides into twos and fours before coming back to itself again, albeit with an additional pressure at his temples. He briefly wonders if he should just hail a taxi before –
“HEY!”
It’s shouted, practically ripped from someone’s vocal chords. Even as ragged as it is, Wilson can’t help but feel that it’s familiar…
And yes. No, he knows that voice all too well.
He spots him on the other side of the road. Leaving behind a bag on a park bench, the man staggers across the busy street. Cars honk at him, a curse word is flung out someone’s passenger window (gotta love Jersey), but that doesn’t stop him. In fact, his eyes are narrowed completely on his target… for as much as a drunk’s eyes can narrow on anything. And yes, even before he gets there, Wilson can smell the alcohol on the guy.
“The patient’s brother,” he stutters, and House grimaces.
The only remaining family member. A more supportive visitor Wilson couldn’t have asked for. He listened patiently to everything that Wilson explained to him while his sister was under. Sometimes, having a visitor in the medical field can be a curse – but this guy, a pharmaceutical research student, only listened patiently to Wilson’s explanation. He seemed quiet, calm, but devoted to the wellbeing of his sister.
And now he’s rushing at him, plastered in public.
It’s a danger, of course. People have thrown punches at Wilson before. House definitely holds the record on that count, but nearly everyone who’s been at the hospital for longer than a year has had to deal with it. It’s not necessarily the most unhinged people that do it, either. How can you predict what people will do when you tell them a loved one has died? People see shooting the messenger as a valid strategy.
Honestly, even knowing that, he wouldn’t have bet money on this guy – Wilson can’t even remember his damn name, only the family name, Wiggins – coming after him.
“C’mon,” he urges, putting a hand on House’s elbow. “Let’s go back into the restaurant, he won’t cause a –”
“Keep walkin’, buddy!” House bellows with his entire chest, and Jesus, House is going to get fucking stabbed. Then, Wilson can’t believe it, but House makes it worse: “You think decking an oncologist is going to bring your sister back?”
“House,” he hisses, because he doesn’t want to deal with it, but House stands firm and Wilson isn’t going to let this guy come at House. Most people don’t go to bat with a man who has a cane, but House has a spectacular talent in pissing them off enough to overcome their prejudices. Wilson will absolutely punch the brother of a dead patient to keep House safe.
“She – She – She was s’posed to live –” The guy says, lurching forward through traffic, and he really does look bad. Even if he’s pumped full of adrenaline (or, god knows, something worse), he can’t keep his eyelids open. Wilson puts his hands up to try and grab the guy by the shoulders, keep him from swinging a fist. He doesn’t want the guy to get arrested over this – Jesus, he just lost a sister. “She –”
It all happens so fast.
Wilson does get his hands on his shoulders, but the man swings his fist forward anyway. Keeps the punch from actually hurting much, though – the side of his fist slams into Wilson’s abdomen, in the ballpark of his lungs - enough to make him cough up air, but he doesn’t feel much more than a dull ache radiating through his body.
And that, as he’ll later say to nearly every technologist in the hospital, was all he felt.
On instinct, Wilson shoves him backward...
And the guy takes off.
Back into the road.
The light on the opposite side of the street has just turned green.
“ Wait –!” Wilson shouts. He’s never been a father, but he figures you don’t need to for a reaction like this. The sight of someone barreling forward into a street, not fast enough to outrun a car, not even fast enough to get out of the way –
A loud thump and the man sails through the air, perfect as a physics problem. Every car in the world abruptly screeches to a halt… followed by the sickening crunch of metal as the cars behind slide into their neighbors in front. All at once, there’s a flurry of action. People are running, people are screaming, and Wilson feels like he’s fighting against a school of fish as he forces his way onto the street.
The man lays there, seeming so much smaller than he had a second ago. His bruised-banana-color trenchcoat covers him like a funeral shroud. Wilson drops to his knees and pulls the guy over onto his back.
A thin trickle of blood falls from his lips. His eyes are open – he stares up at the sky, lost in thought. More blood starts to pool underneath his head. Wilson is abruptly reminded of his sister, of the fountain of blood in her abdomen at least an inch deep.
Shit, shit, shit – he’s not breathing.
He begins chest compressions. Each push of his arms make a flurry of bloody bubbles expel from Wiggins' lips, his ribs crack easily underneath Wilson’s fingers. A crowd has started to form around the pair. He can see the shadows from the corner of his eyes. Someone’s forgotten to turn off their headlights; it's put them both in center stage. It’s hard to see anyone else, really. Wilson's exhaustion is forgotten as he surges forward, counting rapidly under his breath.
The heat in Wilson’s blood surprises even him. He has to see this guy live. This guy just lost his sister – got a little mad, did something stupid, haven’t they all? – and he doesn’t deserve to die over it. Not because he got hit by a goddamn car. He doesn't even have cancer.
Wilson just keeps pressing. He doesn’t count how many rounds he does, all of the numbers are blurring together in his brain. All he can keep count of is the beat, going-going-going –
And then the flash of red lights. The crowd parts as the ambulance pulls through, whooping loud enough to break through the haze of his brain.
With bloodstained fingers, he reaches for the guy’s neck again… but before he can get there, the EMTs pile out of the back and push him aside. Wilson doesn’t quite join the crowd of onlookers. He just backs up until someone stops him, until there’s a hand at his shoulder. He turns to the side, unsurprised by who he sees.
“You alright?” House asks.
What a weird question. There's a guy on the ground that has been hit by a car, and House is looking at him like he might internally combust.
“He, he’s got some sort of head trauma. Lung, maybe, too. He-He wasn’t breathing, at first, so I don’t know if… if…” Wilson stutters out. He brings his hands up to his hair, realizing too late how wet his fingers are.
House keeps staring at him. Wilson can feel his eyes on the side of his face, even if he can’t bring his eyes away from the brother. I'm not going into shock, he wants to say, but stills himself. Alright, maybe I don't see the kind of cases you do, but I know how to do CPR. I'm not going to get squeamish.
They find something. At least, they find the hope the Wilson can’t, because suddenly they’re hustling the man onto a gurney. They bark orders at each other, ones that he can’t hear over the rumble of the crowd, but he recognizes the urgency in we-got-to-get-this-guy-to-a-hospital-now.
“ WAIT!”
House suddenly surges forward, leaning hard on his cane. Wilson follows after him… mostly to stop them, because Jesus, what was House doing? He doesn’t know if this guy can even wait another second. And whatever insanity House has got in mind -
“You have to call a second ambulance,” House blurts, and the EMT – the one who currently has their hands on a heart monitor – raises an eyebrow. He jerks a finger towards Wilson. “For him.”
What?
“For him? What’s wrong with him?”
Wilson turns towards his friend. “Yeah, what’s wrong with me?”
“I don’t know.”
Before the EMTs can understandably shut the doors on him, House sidesteps. In a move that has Wilson reeling, he rips open the front of Wilson’s shirt… forget the tie, his green shirt is absolutely covered in bloodstains now. Below, there’s reddish streaks from where it bled through, like someone played with fingerpaint on his chest, and that has to be all Wiggins. He doesn't know what House is getting at, until he sees something different.
Just below his ribcage, a fresh bead of blood welling up from inside him.
“He was injected with an unknown agent from –” House points. “ That man you have on your gurney.”
This is a really weird time for House to have finally lost his mind. Yes, he’s bleeding, but – “House, he didn’t inject me with anything. He didn’t have a needle on him, he just… he just punched me, that’s all. Probably just glass.”
“You didn’t see it because it was covered by his hand, he was moving too fast . His thumb moved when he made contact with you. Look –” House says in his long-suffering tone, climbing onto the ambulance. That sets off a few of the EMTs, who approach him with hands raised to push him back out again. In his usual way, House pushes through.
He reaches for the outer pocket of his trenchcoat: a little too eagerly, as it turns out. House yanks back his hand with a hiss of pain, but pinched in between his fingers is a portion of a needle: plunger attached, broken, jagged edge.
“God damn it, the stupid son of a bitch fell on it,” he laments. “Keep his coat. We’re going to need some run some tests on it. And has anyone called another god-damn ambulance?”