Points of Interest: This is meant to be a multi-chaptered story, but it may well stop here and even if it doesn't, it will be a long time until I update. However, it functions very well as a stand-alone piece. Contains consistent misspellings of the hospital's name, torture of several characters, and at the moment, slightly ambiguous emotions between two male characters.

Wilson's Suicide

With the chaotic messes that seemed to follow the employees of Princeton-Plainsborough Teaching Hospital, especially those associated with the caustic head of the diagnostics department, Wilson had figured it was only a matter of time before something happened to him. He wasn't superstitious and he didn't really believe God was out to get him—he didn't even think about it, he just sort of accepted it. Almost everyone else around House had been on the receiving end of the hospital bed for whatever reason, including House himself. Maybe it was just pessimism, cynicism born out of the fact that sometimes life felt really unkind. Not that Wilson didn't have a good life—he did. He was just a little tired of it.

That did not make it suicide—even if that was exactly how it looked. The actual event played out like this: Wilson was working late, heading down a perfectly normal flight of emergency stairs—he figured that sneaking through empty emergency stairs on a tough day wasn't going to afflict him on Judgment Day too badly and the elevator had been full anyway—not paying any kind of attention as he walked by a crash cart some absent-minded intern had left behind. It was nothing terribly new for Wilson, but the auspicious circumstances were less than absolving. It was the dead of night, on a rarely-used emergency flight of stairs, at the very top, and even to Wilson, it seemed like the only way he could have managed to pull the crash cart down with him would have been to grab on and cling with all his might. He'd even left a note for God's sake. I'm not going to make it home tonight. There are potatoes in the fridge. Take better care of yourself, House, I mean it! --Wilson. Not exactly grade-A suicide material, but Wilson, crumpled against something hard that thankfully stopped his decent, was regretting it now, in his disoriented and probably-almost-definitely concussed state of mind.

He remembered fiddling with his tie—damn all ties to hell—and then the way his stomach first dropped out from under him as his foot plunged into an abyss of a misstep, surprise cloying in his throat. He remembered thinking how hard the stairs looked, and more rationally, 'pull back', because that would be preferable to a more thorough examination of the stairs. He started to raise his arms to pinwheel them or grab for the rails or loosen his stupid tie, but he never got the chance. There was no uncertain tottering along the edge because he was falling immediately. The stairs seemed to rush at him, like he wasn't moving at all, and for a minute he was discombobulated enough to not be sure if he actually was, even though his hands were still going up, now to curl around his head in desperation that this not hurt as badly as it was going to. But before he'd even hit the stairs something connected with the side of his head—must have been the rails—his vision broke as white pain filled his temple, his hands froze, and then the first stair had hit his arm and he'd stopped caring about anything except wanting it to be over.

The first stair had hurt enough that he would have screamed if shock hadn't sucked all the air out of his lungs. The sound alone was sickening, the thunderous crack of flesh and tile and the way it felt was worse, like the tile had managed to lodge in the tangle of muscles and veins. By the third impact—he couldn't see what he was hitting because the world was spinning far too fast, just a blur of black and gray—he heard one of his bones snap, and it wasn't his last. The air was howling and singing like metal, and after an eternity of falling and a tangle of limbs that just wouldn't cooperate, wouldn't grab onto anything, just tumbled down like a rag doll (and he fell forever; somehow he must have managed to turn and slide down the second flight as well) he found the sound's source as the crash cart soared through the air and landed on him, just as painful as the sharp, unforgiving corners of the stairs and the cold slab of floor, but with added weight. So heavy. Not that Wilson was even considering getting up. His biggest concern was breathing, at the moment. Somewhere along the way he'd blacked out, woken up long enough to find himself still and endure a wash of desperate relief, and then the cart had crushed him down and he was gone again.

Waking up had been a miserable process, and he still wasn't sure he'd gotten it right, because he really didn't think his brain was operating correctly. The fall smeared over his thoughts like a stain, clear as if it was still happening. It certainly hurt as though it was still happening. Nothing else seemed to matter at all except the falling. He knew that was bad. He recalled his name, but slowly, sluggishly. He couldn't remember the exact year, and his head pounded when he tried. Movement was unadvisable but he tried that too, and at once he was trying out yet another function; screaming. But the crash cart was draped over him, shoving all the air out of his lungs, and all he could manage was a pitiful, wheezing moan. He tried to remember where his hands were, tried to push the cart off. Something was wrong with one of his arms because it wouldn't move. The other one put up a good resistance, but moved enough that he could brace it against the cart.

Keep it simple. Get the cart off. Breathe. Then go back to the screaming thing. It's only pain, and… you talk patients through pain all the time. Nothing specific, but at least he remembered his job without undue prompting. Holding his breath Wilson pushed and let go almost immediately, whimpering at the cost of trying to use his torso. He lay in silent, still agony, reluctant to try again, but eventually he did, if nothing because he was starting to black out again and concussed, in pain, and free still seemed better than dead and pinned under a crash cart. It hurt like hell—hurt enough to scare him—but he shoved as hard as he could anyway, eyes squeezed shut against the image of the ceiling, and when he collapsed again he was thoroughly defeated and concluded that he was battered, trapped, and there was a very good chance that he was indeed going to die.

Melodramatic as it was, death was not an unreasonable conclusion to this drama. He could feel blood now, itching its way down his face, down his leg too, some of it in his eyes, he knew concussions and he was pretty sure this one was serious, not to mention the shock, and he didn't even want to think about the internal damage. His medical mind whispered of how he would die of internal hemorrhaging in the middle of a hospital, just like so many others, except he would probably be one of the few to have no one attending. The rest of him babbled a ceaseless undercurrent of nonsense; tormenting him with paragraphs out of context, disjointed conversations with friends, and the same infuriating song lyrics over and over and over again as his brain functions looked for a reset button. He couldn't have been conscious for all of it, but he felt like he was; dreams not so different from reality.

When he drifted awake again it was through no will of his own but because his phone was going off. Set to vibrate, it made more pitiful sounds ease their way out of his throat as jolts went up his hip. Automatic response told him to answer it and he edged his working hand towards it, as slowly as he could manage, sliding his palm over his hip for the pocket. His arm protested heartily. Everything protested but that last shred of instinctual common sense that urged relentlessly, answer the phone, answer the phone, answer the phone. It doesn't matter if it's an insurance salesman, just answer and get someone to help, get someone to come before it's too late.

The ambiguous 'someone' echoed in his head. He didn't know who to call, only that there was 'someone'. That was just great.

Wilson bit back a cry of frustration when his hand met with nothing; the phone pocket was wedged in between his hip and the floor, pinned beneath it. It was impossible to reach. His arm flopped down lifelessly and he sobbed until the ringing stopped, and then for a good while after. Whoever it was didn't call back.

He had expected something like this to happen at some point. He'd recognized the pattern. He'd thought that there would be a car accident or an allergic reaction or—or even a mugging, whatever. Just not this; not falling down the stairs. Not where he was probably going to die from completely treatable injuries because the halls of the hospital were too big for complete, daily janitorial sweeps and no one put cameras into emergency staircases that were usually kept locked. Not where he might be dead before anyone found him (and they would find him, he reasoned, eventually someone would have to go looking for that missing crash cart). Not where, he realized with a horrible start, right then, it was going to look like a suicide.

The thought struck him as equal parts horrendous and equal parts hilarious as he assessed its validity now, lying in a heap in the stairwell under a gurney. Surely no one would actually buy that, would they? James Wilson was stable, was level-headed, was mocked for being the only optimist in his department. He was nice, he was well-liked, affluent, talented, respected—he had a good life. No one would think he would kill himself; they'd think someone pushed him first or see it for what it was, a ridiculous accident. All evidence to the contrary, they'd know and they'd accept the absurd situation, because that's just what people did when they were confronted by these kinds of things; they let go, stepped back, and accepted that however unlikely, that was just the way it happened. Of course they did. It was a comforting thought, and Wilson felt the nameless panic that had made him cry easing away.

But who was he calling?

Suddenly Wilson's predicament wasn't funny anymore, because his snarled thoughts somehow made their way to the person they knew best of all, and that memory slid into place like a puzzle piece. A 'someone' who wouldn't accept an easy answer, who would consider every possibility no matter how distasteful—someone who knew all the reasons why Wilson might off himself, knew just how good his life actually was. Someone who knew he was among those reasons. A brutally logical, misanthropic man with a penchant for blaming himself for everything his intellect would let him get away with. He wouldn't be able to help it, Wilson knew, insides turning into cold, shuddering jelly. He'll have to blame himself. If it isn't suicide he'll find another reason to make it all his fault so he can limp around and feel sorry for himself.

House was just self-centered enough to think that Wilson's lack of coordination was some blunder of his own. Maybe he was tired from cooking the potatoes. Maybe he was tired of cooking potatoes for an ungrateful jerk. And oh God, House had the note. The stupid, sulky, you-could-have-gotten-me-up-when-I-slept-through-the-alarm note that sounded like a goodbye. If House chose to take it all as a suicide, he'd think he'd somehow driven Wilson to it.

Damn.

Coherency wasn't Wilson's strong suit at the moment, however, and soon those worries dissolved into a marginally pleasant movie reel of his best friend and himself doing stupid, best friend-related activities. Getting drunk. Watching TV. Arguing about the color of the moon. Getting drunk some more. Complaining about anything within earshot. Leaning on each other. Taking care of each other whenever the other wasn't looking. Stealing food and clothes and shampoo and whatnot. Getting that one laugh or that one smile that no one else got and not caring to rub it in anyone's face. Just walking. The part of Wilson that was a terrible, terrible person wished that House was with him, lying next to him in a similar heap, because even if they couldn't talk, it wouldn't be so damned alone. If House was next to him he wouldn't be so incredibly scared.

He was literally shaking with fear. Strangely enough, he couldn't tell if he was scared of what was happening and what would happen, or the fact that House wasn't going to be there when it did.

Who'll take care of him if I'm gone? Wilson questioned desperately. Who's going to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid and… remembers that he's human and (most importantly) who's just going to be there? House needed him, as stupid as that was. He'd been getting better, but it wasn't enough. Wilson's heart thudded wildly in his chest, mortified at the thought of leaving his crippled friend alone. A little quieter he had to wonder, Is he going to miss me? The answer to which was a snort and, Because we really are this insecure.

And then, Of course he will.

Tears blotted out the ceiling again, concussion and wishful thinking helping the blob of colors to look familiar. How he'd ever managed to forget that 'someone' the first place was beyond him. Dammit.

Wilson tried to call his name, tried to call for help, tried to incur a miracle and throw the crash cart off of himself, succeeded in wheezing a little more, and then passed out again.

He woke to the hum of his phone against his hip, feeling grateful, sick, and scared all at the same time. He wasn't sure he would have woken up again without the phone and not in the 'oh it's been a long day' kind of waking up. In spite of his inability to keep his eyes open he knew what a bad idea it was to sleep with a concussion. If he didn't have brain damage he almost certainly had it now, and if he kept it up, he was begging for worse repercussions. The light had already changed—there must be a window somewhere that he couldn't turn his head to see—and he could hear the bustle of the hospital during the day through the walls. Time had passed, even if he didn't know how long it had been since he'd fallen. It didn't look like anyone was coming to find him, if they hadn't already exhausted their search.

The phone ceased its relentless buzzing, and Wilson's hip slowly faded back into a general, numbing ache. He contemplated trying to get someone's attention by banging his elbow against the wall or something, but in a busy hospital, that wasn't going to garner any attention at all, even assuming his banging didn't go straight into an empty room. His body felt cool, and his eyelids were heavy. It hurt just to be awake. He was so, so tired…

No!

Wilson yanked his drooping eyelids back open through sheer force of will, teeth clenching against the draw to slumber. The phone was going off again but it was only peripheral, not enough to make him feel completely awake. He batted away the fog in his head, scolding himself. You always tell your patients to do their best and you don't let them give up, so you don't get to give up now. Stay focused. Stay awake. The janitor has to clean this place eventually or someone will look for the crash cart. And no one calls you this often when you're not married; somebody's looking for you. The precious bit of hope that thought afforded Wilson was more suffocating than the crash cart. You never came home last night. Your car is still in the parking lot. Did you clock out? Can't remember. Doesn't matter. Those are the clues. There's a chance they might find you.

When this failed to convince his thoughts to stop drifting around like a jellyfish, Wilson gritted his teeth and shifted his shoulder, which served to wake him up nicely for the time being. House will be looking for you, Wilson realized between gasps of hot, dazzlingly painful air. Don't disappoint him.

Which of course started another montage of his best friend, and Wilson occupied himself with trying not to sob like a little girl. Comments about flesh wounds floated around restlessly in his mind, slowly reduced to the simple desire to just see House again, to just hear his voice, hear his clacking gait, anything at all. Just—House. Just for a second. House was always there when it really mattered, and it mattered now. If he was going to die, the last thing he wanted to do was lose himself in the inexplicable comfort he found in the other man. Even if the only thing House did was stare at him and call him an idiot it would be worth it and—OH GODDAMMIT, WOULD THAT PHONE EVER GIVE HIM SOME PEACE?!

Wilson would have writhed away from it if he hadn't known that would serve only to exacerbate his miserable condition, so as it was, he just sort of chanted his friend's name in his head until the vibrations ceased and he could relax. He'd sucked in maybe three shallow breaths and then the phone was at it again and if he ever had the chance, even if it was only as a ghost, he was going to delete the vibrate setting off of it forever. With a tire iron, if necessary.

Vzz, vzz, vzz, went the phone. Ow, ow, ow, Wilson responded, wishing that he at least had the courage to wince, but he really didn't. The worst part about it was that it was probably help calling, not even a foot away. Just stuck under enough pounds of metal to hold the pounds of human concealing it in place. He found himself feeling for it again, even though he knew the quest was futile. Maybe it was House calling—probably. Being so annoyingly persistent was one of his better qualities. There was a lump in Wilson's throat now as he pictured House growing steadily more annoyed as he slammed whatever unfortunate phone he had on his person back into its cradle and redialed the same number. House could be just that close. All Wilson had to do was flip open his phone and there would be House's voice ready to mock him for how much of a girl he was currently being (because he was kind of being a girl at the moment, but being absolutely terrified tended to justify that). If he could just get it to his ear he would find House. He… wouldn't be scared anymore.

Before he even really knew what he was doing he was bracing against the floor, gulping in quick, noisy breaths, preparing to do something very stupid and possibly put himself into cardiac arrest in the process if the pain was as bad as he was expecting. He knew he couldn't lift the crash cart long enough to crawl out from under it. But he might be able to shift it just long enough that he could, say, retrieve his cell phone and sole chance of not dying alone in an abandoned stairwell. He prayed that he was hyperventilating enough to get some endorphins and threw his shoulder up, the rest following its lead. It didn't hurt as bad as he thought and he snatched up the phone, cart crashing back down in time for the real wave of pain to communicate through his nervous system. Air he didn't even remember taking in when he moved the cart blasted out of him in a strangled cry. It was the first real sound he'd managed to make, mostly unnoticed as the waves of pain washing over him made him so lightheaded he couldn't be one hundred percent sure that the object in question was still attached.

His eyes stayed glued to the chrome device in his hands, vibration sending tingles through his arm that felt like little bursts of electricity. The vibrations ended moments later, and Wilson waited for the pain of moving his body to do the same, but now that it was aroused it showed no signs of sinking back into oblivion. Giving up, he used the two fingers not swollen beyond recognition to snap the phone open. His hand decided to start shaking and shook almost too badly for him to put in the number, but at least he could remember it. In fact, it flowed to mind effortlessly, sweeping his heart along with it and into his throat as he heard the chorus of all the angels in the world. He heard maybe a half-second of that dial tone and then there was House on the other end, demanding loudly, louder than anything Wilson had heard for hours. His head ached with the sound and everything else felt better.

"Wilson?!"

Wilson's eyes slipped closed when he heard his friend, relieved as though he'd stopped falling all over again. The voice sounded pissed off and incredulous and reluctantly concerned all at once. Definitely House. In spite of everything, or maybe because of it—concussions did not make for the brightest minds—Wilson smiled, almost laughing. Happier than he'd felt in weeks. He should fall down the stairs more often, although maybe he could pick shorter flights. "House," he tried to reply, but only a sigh of air passed through his throat.

"Where the hell were you?" House growled, and Wilson heard something that sounded like House's cane go slamming into what sounded suspiciously like his desk. Then again, he could just be having trouble with the filing cabinets. "I've been look… I can't believe you made me look for you! Cuddy's going to kick your ass into next year for acting like, well, me—" He paused. "Plus you stuck me with nothing but cereal for breakfast."

Mooch, Wilson thought, not without affection. He wanted to tell House dryly that he was sorry for his great sufferings, but he knew his throat wouldn't obey him. Instead he smiled, head leaning against the phone and probably getting blood all over it. He might care at some later point, if he wasn't dead.

He could all but hear the gears grinding away in House's head at his uncharacteristic silence. He heard his exhalation as static through the phone line. The connection sucked, he realized. He hadn't noticed; hearing House's voice had been far more important. When House spoke again his voice was perfectly controlled, the paradigm of nonchalance. It spoke volumes about the worries cluttering his head up. "…Wilson?"

Wilson blinked vigorously, remembering that he'd had a purpose after all, that there was a reason to call House other than the obvious fact that he wanted to. Something to tell him. He couldn't think clearly with the tides of pain lapping around his ears, but they weren't receding and Wilson didn't think they would. They would pull him under soon enough. It was now or never. Summoning up whatever strength he hadn't already burned his way through, Wilson managed to inhale deeply enough to croak, "House…"

There was a miscellaneous sound on the other end of the line, a sort of hiss, and then a long void of sound as Wilson tried to draw in another suitable breath. "You sound like crap," House complained then, but his voice was still too controlled to resemble normalcy. "I can't believe you'd go get drunk without me. I should jack your car just to pay you back." No insult followed this; uncharacteristic of House. It didn't sound completely right without some title House felt suited the situation to make Wilson roll his eyes.

"Not… drunk…" Wilson ground out, words costing him dearly. He dragged in another breath of air, gasping over the water he seemed to be drowning in. He tried to keep the pain out of his voice, but it cracked anyway, rattling over the words. "I fell."

There was a roaring in his ears now competing against the bad phone connection with the things Wilson hated most in the world, so he couldn't be sure when he thought he heard House standing up with a great, hazardous clatter. He didn't imagine what House said though, because he was clinging to his every word as the most precious things in the world. "I'm coming to get you," he said in a tone grim enough to make Wilson shiver all over again with memories of hospital beds and tribunals. He didn't sound angry—he sounded unstoppable. "Tell me where you are."

"Bottom of… Stairs." Wilson's voice was weakening now, willpower not enough to struggle against the cart. He seemed to have dropped it in a worse position than it had lain before because now it wasn't obstructing his breathing, it was actively shoving the air out of his lungs. "I fell," he repeated, and suddenly remembered what was so vitally important. His eyes snapped back open. "Not suicide," he stressed firmly. "It wasn't, OK? I…" He was drifting again, mind fluttering away. "…Fell…"

"Which stairs?" House was asking and Wilson was sure he hadn't heard. The roaring in his ears was getting worse. Maybe he hadn't spoken at all; he couldn't tell.

"Wasn't suicide," he insisted wearily, and flinched away when House's voice barked over the phone, practically a scream.

"Dammit, Wilson, which stairs?!"

Wilson's mouth worked slowly as his brain tried and failed to remember the numbers or the way to give directions. He could hear House breathing hard, air whistling as though it was coming from between clenched teeth, but the man stayed deathly silent. Wilson wished he wouldn't. Even angry, he was just sick and tired of being alone, especially now that he finally wasn't. Finally an answer that actually made sense sprang to mind and Wilson coughed out, "Emergency."

"OK." House didn't sound like he'd calmed much, but at least he'd lowered his voice. Probably a bad day with his leg. Maybe he should ask Cuddy to inject him with some new 'mystery drug'. Placebo or not, if it worked it was worth it. "Stay there. I'm coming." When Wilson started to giggle, House just sounded pissed off. "What now?"

"Nothing," Wilson assured his friend, not sure why it was so funny, only that it was. Everything was funny. And oh, it was sparkling. He couldn't be crying again! "I can't move." He giggled again, but House did not share his amusement.

"—Paralysis?"

Wilson's giggles braved the odds to become chuckles. "No—crash cart."

"What?"

"Something like that," Wilson agreed amicably, smiling again and feeling warm all over, like a blanket had been draped over him by his mother. The roaring in his ears had turned into solid cotton fluff and his head seemed to be stuffed with it. That wasn't too bad. He liked the scarecrow almost as much as the tin man, and he already knew that was House. Pretending not to have a heart and really having the best one of all. He wasn't really feeling the pain anymore. As much as he liked that, he knew it wasn't good. He was failing, but it was kind of OK. He could hear House right next to him. "House?"

Whatever he was doing, he sounded out of breath. "Yeah?"

"Sorry." There was no reply to that at all, so Wilson went on, falteringly. "For falling. Accidently." His body felt so heavy. It felt even heavier than the crash cart had.

House shouted something at someone else—at least Wilson hoped so, because he couldn't hear whatever he'd said—and then snapped into the cell phone, "I really don't care right now, Wilson."

"Oh." That meant he wasn't angry, right? It was good enough for Wilson. He had House on the other line, even if it was only his breathing and being crankier than usual. He'd told him it was an accident. That had been all he'd needed to do, right? Where was a good checklist when you needed one? He was so tired. Everything else could wait until later. Morning. Night. Whatever.

He must have lapsed into silence even though he could have sworn he was still talking, grumbling something about Vicodin addictions, suddenly House's voice was pressed up against his ear again. "Keep talking."

Wilson opened his mouth to comply, and then realized he'd have to inhale to talk. He did so, but it was exhausting and most of it sank right back out of him at the realization that he'd have to muster the energy to hold it there. "I'm tired… House…"

"No sleeping. Talk."

"…You sound worried." And he did. He didn't sound nonchalant or snippy or any of his other usual standbys against emotional unpleasantness. Wilson could hear unpleasantness in his voice now, unshielded panic. It was enough to snap him into lucidity for a moment, heart squeezing painfully because he'd done this and maybe House knew it wasn't a suicide attempt, but there would always be a question in the air and a space at his side where Wilson used to fit. House knew that. Wilson's best friend snapped something that bounced through Wilson's skull without registering. He could hear it, hear the rage in it, knew that he heard something, but House might as well have been speaking in another language because Wilson didn't have the vaguest inkling of what the words meant. He didn't understand them at all.

That was really, really, really not good.

Shit. I always thought that I'd have more time than this. I thought it would take longer. I thought… something would happen. I thought that winding up here was supposed to be a complication, not… the end. It's not over. I was supposed to help him.

What am I supposed to do without him?

"I'm sorry," Wilson gasped, or that's what he thought he did; at this stage there was no telling what came out of his mouth. He saw the doors open in a blaze of light, the doors at the top of the flight, and he could see the familiar, wonderful silhouette standing there—no, already hurrying down the stairs. He seemed to be falling down them actually. Wilson couldn't tell. He couldn't stop the sigh of remorse that passed his lips because he hadn't been able to see House clearly, and it would have been so wonderful if he could have.

That was too much though; he'd already stopped being afraid.

Wilson was very accustomed to the color white after working in a hospital for most of his life and he figured the next time he opened his eyes that was what he'd be seeing (the afterlife didn't seem too color-friendly either), so when that was what he saw the next time he opened his eyes, he wasn't overly shocked. For a moment the emptiness of the area struck him and he was sure that the floating sensation in his body was because he was ensconced in a cloud and that the decorating committee in paradise needed serious help, but then he saw a stain of black among the pristine color. House.

He was sitting across the room in a visitor's chair. His bad leg was stretched out in front of him like a prosthetic, the other seemingly rooted to the floor. His arms were crossed tightly over his black bomber jacket, everything as rigid and tense as it was possible for one man to be. He watched Wilson with furiously intense blue eyes, face set into a stony frown, giving no sign that he'd seen his friend's eyes open. He watched Wilson look around, silent and frozen until Wilson spoke.

"Where's this?" He asked, and didn't miss the twitch that sprang from House's shoulder and sank into the rest of him. The blue glare hardened and Wilson stared back, lost.

"The ER," House said shortly, and raised an eyebrow. "And that had better be the morphine talking."

"Morphine?" Wilson was momentarily confused, and then the reason for thinking he'd see white returned. He'd fallen down the stairs, hadn't he, and House had come to rescue him. Under House's scrutiny, a soft smile spread over Wilson's lips at the thought. Of course he had. It would have to be House. Glaring at him.

"That's the third time you've asked me where we are," House elaborated, correctly assuming that Wilson's attention was wavering, and refusing to let that happen on his watch. The smile faded into neutrality, and then into a frown.

"I've been… awake?"

"Couple of times. Apparently nothing really noteworthy happened."

Something about the way House said that made Wilson avert his eyes, unable to withstand his stare any longer. It wasn't even particularly biting and it was still more than Wilson could handle. "…You've been here this whole time?"

As quickly as he'd brought it up, House was brushing it aside. "Don't look so surprised. Want a catalogue of your injuries? You suffered trauma to the head, lost about three p—"

"Do you have to go?" Wilson interrupted quickly, staring at the floor, the bedpost, the blinds, anywhere but his friend. He swallowed around a lump that manifested itself in his throat at the drop of a hat, and if he'd been able to fidget, he probably would have. House's eyes burned his skin, especially his own eyes, and to his horror, even though the ordeal was over, even though he'd come out fine and was here talking with House right now, his eyes started to mist up again. He was floating and things didn't make sense, but thinking that House was going to leave made him cry. "I mean… Can you stay? Now that I'm awake?"

Are you going to stay with me?

House never took his eyes off of him. Wilson risked a glance and quickly looked away. House's eyes, beyond the startling blue, were all reddened and as tense as everything else in the man that had locked him in place at the far end of the room, as far from Wilson as he could be and still see every detail—still dominate the visitors' chairs. House made the auditory equivalent of a shrug. "If you want." To be honest, it didn't look like he could move from his station even if he did have to go. If his eyes weren't so sharp, Wilson would suspect tetanus had set in, or rigor mortis. But you never knew. Maybe he had some important case or clinic hours or something else that was more important than staying and trying not to pretend things weren't awkward with his medically stable friend. Wilson was practically choking on his relief, in between blinking at the wall in an attempt to not break down.

And then there was that selfish side of Wilson again, and he had to bite his lip. He didn't want to ask. He'd put House through enough without making silly, unreasonable demands of him. It wasn't like it was medically relevant, and it was beyond the confines of anything he'd asked of their friendship. But the urge was almost like a physical need, like how he had to keep breathing. He wanted to know House was here and prove it, prove that it wasn't a hallucination, catch a little warmth with his skin and hold it there. His hand twitched, already imagining how it would feel if he could touch House. What warm and rough and pretty damn heroic would feel under his fingers now. How he'd look up close and how he'd feel. House would hate it, would be completely uncomfortable, but Wilson couldn't stop himself from wanting it.

Wilson's mouth opened to coax him near, but before he could ask, House cleared his throat. "I'm going to sit by you," he informed him without further preamble. Wilson stared, nonplussed, before realizing the great and merciful House was awaiting a response. To his completely unprompted question, er, demand. His demand to behave like a human being, no less. It was weird.

"OK…?"

House nodded firmly and, hefting his cane, limped over to where his friend lay, kicked another chair into position and began scowling at Wilson from the bedside. His eyes left Wilson's face to travel over every other exposed detail, assessing it all. When they returned to Wilson's face they were looking at each other. No one said anything.

House's hand twitched too.

"Thank you," Wilson blurted out, unable to stop himself. "Thank you for coming for me."

"You can stop saying that too," House grumbled, scooted his chair forward until the bedside was wedged into his ribcage, and reached out, hand darting to Wilson's face and hovering there for a moment as Wilson's eyes widened, giving him the chance to slap it aside. When he didn't, House risked a quick, gentle flick of hair out of his eyes, and then retracted the hand at light speed, looking sour to be caught doing something nice without an alibi. "You're safe now, anyway, so shut up…" Morphine also dulled the senses a little less than Wilson expected, because when he automatically snatched at the fleeing hand, he caught it.

House and Wilson both stared at this new development as though they had no say in what their rebellious hands did, and had never seen two hands twined together as they were. Wilson's hand held House's in place, enough that he could be the guilty one, the one who forced the contact on his innocent friend, but that didn't fool either of them. House's grip, snapped around as much of Wilson's hand as Wilson's hand's bones would allow, was white-knuckled and shaking. Maybe it was the strain of sitting like a statue for hours on end. Maybe it was the reason his eyes were so red. His fingers tightened and it hurt, but Wilson's tightened around his too, more concerned with assuring himself that House was actually there. He was warm and solid, skin hard against Wilson's fingers. Pretty damn heroic felt a lot like home.

And still neither of them said anything. They were looking at each other again, sizing up their respective states, and trying to decode the expressions of two people who weren't quite ready to tell that truth yet. House broke the silence first, voice scraping raw and quiet over their corner of the room.

"How did you manage to fall under a crash cart?"