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The call comes in the middle of the night. Stacy's a light sleeper on the best of nights, so when Greg wanders back into their bedroom, picking through his closet for a shirt, she's sitting up.
"Okay. I'll be there in thirty," Greg says. "Don't try to steal any more organs without me." He hangs up, and if Stacy had any questions about who was calling, Greg's goodbye answered all of them.
"James?" Stacy asks, and House nods as he zips up his jeans.
"He took a cab to Princeton General and got caught sniffing around their morgue. Needs me to pick him up." He sits on the bed as he laces up his shoes, and Stacy moves over to kiss the back of his neck. Greg gives her a small smile and leans his head against hers.
"He didn't drive himself, huh?" Greg gives a hum in agreement. "Can't be good."
"Not much is with him, nowadays," Greg says humorlessly, and kisses Stacy one more time before heading for the door. "Love you."
"Love you too," Stacy replies, laying back down. "Tell James I said hi."
–
Wilson is waiting for House on a curb near the ambulance entrance for Princeton General, the gentle glow of a cigarette illuminating his hands. House pulls over and watches him lean heavier than usual on his cane as he walks a few yards over to the ashtray, stub out his smoke, and drop the butt in the trash before limping back to House's car.
"Thanks," Wilson says curtly as he gets into the passenger seat. He stares out the window, giving House the opportunity to study the man. His left palm rests just above his left thigh, and twitches slightly. Even the slightest touch causes Wilson to grimace; granted, it is a small, schooled reaction, that possibly only one person in the world would notice. Unfortunately for Wilson, that person is driving the car.
"I thought we were going organ shopping tomorrow," House comments, turning the radio down. Nothing good is playing at three-fifty in the morning, anyways. "Afraid I don't have an eye for the right kidney?"
Wilson doesn't laugh, and he doesn't banter back either. The twitch continues, and if House looks, he can spot a match in Wilson's right arm when he goes to check his watch.
"Are you off the meds again?" House asks, annoyed. "Is your opioid rotation schedule not good enough for you? Or did one of your patients whine about scraping their leg again, and you had to -"
Wilson wordlessly pulls a prescription bottle out of his pocket, and hands it to House. It's his oxycodone prescription from last week, and House can see from just a brief look its untouched. He tosses it back to Wilson, and Wilson misses the catch. In fact, he doesn't even try to catch it; the orange bottle hits his right arm and bounces off, rattling onto the floor of House's car.
House pulls over. "You skipped out on bowling on Monday." He stares at the back of Wilson's head. Wilson continues to stare at side of the road, occasionally glancing at the time. "You're awake at three in the morning, poking around other hospitals, waiting for car accidents to come in. You didn't drive yourself - you've been having me drive you to work this whole week," House continues. "You bastard, I was feeling bad for you. What the hell are you doing to yourself this time?"
"Sorry the ibuprofen doesn't cut through the pain like an oxycodone does, but I have to be off opioids for a little while. So I couldn't go to bowling with you, because I was too busy laying in agony on my couch and trying to sleep," Wilson replies, and his voice is hoarse.
"You missed poker night too," House adds sullenly. In the two years since Wilson's infarction, he's watched Wilson tear himself apart for every patient, every case that comes into his office, with more fury and diligence than ever possessed him.
Its that same drive that made House pick him out of a jail cell in New Orleans, a drunken, fresh-faced MD slurring about divorce and an alcoholic he saw in the bar who obviously was a few months from a heart attack, couldn't you see his swollen ankles, before throwing up in the gutter. The compulsive need to give, give, give, more than he had, and then some. James Wilson could draw blood from a stone: white, red, plasma, platelets, antigen null, Rh(D) negative, and he wouldn't save a goddamn drop for himself.
Wilson has beaten himself into being nicest person House has ever met, and he has always wondered how that niceness keeps ticking. Lately, he wonders how far Wilson's kindness can stretch before it snaps.
"I'll be fine," Wilson says, and he turns to look at House. He tries for a comforting smile, and House bites back his fury at it.
"I'm not one of your patients you have to reassure," House snaps.
"No, you're my friend," Wilson agrees, and he checks the time again.
"You're not drinking," House muses. Wilson's been off liquor - a necessary evil, after he gave a piece of his liver to one of his pediatrics patients. Ever since he realized he could portion out his own body, donate what he could. "So what other substances are making it difficult for you to drive?"
"Don't press, House," Wilson murmurs. "Finding out won't change anything."
"Gabapentin again?" Wilson shakes his head, and leans back against the seat. His hand twitches, and his eyes go to his watch. "Whatever it is, it's time for another dose. Take it or stop staring at the time."
"Taking it late won't hurt," Wilson says, an undercurrent of irritation in his voice. "It's probably best if I figure out what the half-life is for me, anyways."
"Figure out the half-life - " House stares at Wilson, who meets House's eyes and gives him half a smile, exhaustion tinging the edges. "Damn it, are you on another experimental drug?"
Wilson exhales. He's been caught, but instead of anger, he simply seems resigned. "Phase one showed promise for the treatment of positive symptoms in patients with acute psychosis. Even if it doesn't work for the majority, if it's palatable for me, there's a good chance it'll - "
"Work for your brother, I know. One difference, Wilson, is that your brother is schizophrenic, and you are just self-loathing," House cuts him off. "Give it to me."
"No."
"Even if it worked, you haven't seen your brother in ten years. Give it to me."
"I said no."
House pauses, then starts scrambling at Wilson's coat, fingers reaching for the inside pockets where he knows the drugs are hidden. Wilson swears and pushes himself against the side of the car. For a moment, their fingers interlock as Wilson struggles to push House away. Wilson's nails dig into House's skin. The struggle continues for a moment, before Wilson goes boneless, head falling forward and hand slumping against House's.
House immediately goes to check Wilson's pulse. The moment he lets go, Wilson gets up and staggers out the car door.
He slams the door without grabbing his cane. "Asshole!" House curses loudly, shuts the car off, and gets out to follow him.
There are few silver linings to Wilson's infarction. Wilson likes to point out that House is happy to drive him around, as long as it means he can use the handicap parking spots.
Another one is that House has already seen Wilson at his worst, twice-over, and so when Wilson tells House to fuck off, House does exactly what he did the last two times: stays.
"You're not taking those for your brother." House catches up to Wilson quickly, standing in front of him. Wilson glares at House. "He quit his first prescription because it made him 'antsy.' Do you think he's going to ignore all the extrapyramidal side effects of whatever drug you're taking right now? You're a martyr without a cause."
"Damn it, I know!" Wilson roars. He points an accusatory finger at the other man. "Phase one indicated the negative side-effects could stop by week three. Five more days, and we'll know for sure."
"By week three means they should have stopped already. If I dig up the trial, will it say how many patients quit early due to side effects?" Silence. "This whole punishing yourself shtick is getting old, Wilson. You want to help your brother, put his picture up on the side of a milk carton. If he's even - "
"Don't go there," Wilson interrupts, and his voice cracks. "I'm serious, House. Don't."
There's a tense quiet between them, then House nods tersely, the best apology he's willing to give.
"Experimental antipsychotics are just your roundabout way of making yourself feel better," House says. "And there are better ways to do that."
A car approaches, and its high beams illuminate Wilson in all his indignant glory, the early gray at his temples, the bags under his eyes, the ever-present, uneven scruff on his face, the wrinkles in his button-up shirt. House is frozen as he takes in the laugh lines by his eyes, the hands that have brought countless patients back from the brink, the deep brown eyes that bore holes into House's face. There's that same diligence and hard-won desire to do good that keeps Wilson waking up, with the fiery resentment that goes down to his marrow licking at the edges, rattling the bars of its cage.
The car passes. Then, the sound and fury goes out of Wilson, and he hands House the second orange bottle of the night. There's a long, thin sheet of paper wrapped around it, and where the warnings would be, House can see Wilson has written down every side effect he's experienced, with tallies for how frequent. He pockets the bottle.
"Come home," House says. Wilson studies House's face, and what he finds there, House does not know. It seems to be enough. He nods.
Together, they walk the few yards back to the car. When they get inside, Wilson takes an oxycodone. House starts the car and resumes the journey back to his apartment.
By the time they get back, Wilson is dead asleep. His soft snores keep House from needing to check his pulse. House carefully takes the bottle containing the experimental drugs out of his pocket, and checks Wilson's diary of symptoms. Sure enough, insomnia is listed.
"Idiot," House whispers. Stacy is waiting at the window, and she helps House lay Wilson on their couch. House undoes Wilson's sneakers and chucks them by the door. He slumps in the chair by the wall and watches Wilson. House listens to his breathing, feels Stacy press a kiss to his hair, and lets himself slip into sleep.
–
When he wakes up again, sun is streaming through the window and Stacy is heading out to work. Greg gives her a wry smile, and she returns it.
"Is James going to be okay?" She asks, then frowns. "As okay as he can be?"
"Definitely the latter," Greg says, glancing at the clock. "He'll sleep for a few more hours, then we'll go to the diner on our way in. He'll complain about being late the whole time, order a side of home fries he doesn't want, which I will have to selflessly eat."
"What a hero you are," Stacy replies dryly as she opens the front door. "If the tables were turned, I'm sure he'd do the same."
The door shuts, but Stacy's comment sticks with House. He settles in for another couple hours of sleep, stretching out his legs and scratching his right thigh absentmindedly. "She's gone, you can stop pretending to sleep."
"Sorry," Wilson mumbles against his pillow. It's Wilson's pillow that lives in their closet, for nights like these. He's wrapped in his blanket, fleece with a picture of a horse on it. It was ten bucks at Walmart, and they both pretend Wilson doesn't love it. "I'll call her and say thanks later today."
"Diner time?" House asks, going to the kitchen and coming back with a glass of water. Wilson splits a pill and takes half. He stretches briefly then goes about folding the sheets and blanket. House and Stacy would just ball them up and throw them back into the depths of the closet. He knows Wilson does the same, at his apartment.
Wilson pauses as he lays the linens on the side of the couch. "If the tables were turned," he starts, but House scoffs and cuts him off.
"C'mon, Wilson. I'm starving." No point in entertaining such a futile thought exercise, not when there's hot food calling their names.
Wilson gives House a smile with a hint of teeth, as genuine and honest as he gets nowadays. It's the best thing he's seen in years.