Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

____________

House is always late.
But House is never THIS late.

He’s annoyingly consistent about it—rolling into Princeton-Plainsboro at 8:57 a.m., cane tapping against tile, Vicodin joke already loaded, eyes already bored. Wilson has built his mornings around that rhythm more times than he’d ever admit.
So when it’s 9:12, and House isn’t there, Wilson notices.

At 9:20, he checks his phone.
No texts. No missed calls. No sarcastic voicemail left at 6 a.m. accusing Wilson of secretly replacing the coffee with decaf.
Wilson exhales, tells himself it’s nothing. House skips work all the time. House ignores his calls all the time. This is just… Tuesday.

Still, he texts.
You alive?
Nothing.

By 9:35, Wilson is pacing the length of his office, phone in hand like it might bite him. He calls. It rings. And rings. And rings.
Voicemail.

“Hey,” Wilson says, trying for casual and failing immediately. “Uh—call me back, okay? You’re late. Which is… new. For you. So. Just—yeah.”
He hangs up and immediately regrets the tremor in his voice.
House doesn’t answer the second call either. Or the third.

Wilson’s chest tightens in that familiar, unwelcome way—the one he pretends is just irritation, just concern for a difficult friend, and not the bone-deep fear that comes from loving someone who treats his own life like a disposable item.
You’re being dramatic, he tells himself. He probably slept in. Or got arrested. Again.

At 9:52, Cuddy calls.
Wilson answers on the first ring.

“James,” Cuddy says, and there’s something in her voice—tight, careful, administrator-polished but fraying underneath.
His stomach drops.
“What’s wrong?”
“There’s been an accident.”
The words knock the air out of him.
“House,” she continues. Not a question. A fact.
Wilson sits down hard in his chair. “What kind of accident?”

“Motorcycle,” Cuddy says. “He was brought in about twenty minutes ago. ER trauma bay.”
For a moment, Wilson can’t hear anything past the rush of blood in his ears. Motorcycle. House. Late. Not answering.
Oh God.

“I’m coming,” he says, already grabbing his coat, keys clattering to the floor as his hands shake. “Is he—”
“He’s alive,” Cuddy cuts in, softer now. “But he’s hurt. You should come.”
The line goes dead.
Wilson stands there for half a second, phone pressed to his ear, before the fear finally catches up and steals his breath.

House. Bloody. Broken. Because of course it would be the bike—because House never does anything halfway, not pain, not risk, not self-destruction.
As he runs for the elevator, one thought loops relentlessly through his mind, louder than all the rest:

I never told him.

And if House wakes up—if he wakes up—Wilson doesn’t know whether he’ll be more afraid of losing him…

…or of the fact that he might never get another chance to say the words he’s been swallowing for years.

____________

𝓕𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓱𝓫𝓪𝓬𝓴 𝓽𝓸 𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓮

House knows the road.
He takes it every morning—the long stretch where traffic thins and the speed limit becomes more of a suggestion than a rule. The bike hums beneath him, vibration steady, familiar. Pain is quieter when he rides. The wind doesn’t care about his leg or his limp or the dull ache gnawing at him before the Vicodin kicks in.

For a few minutes, everything shuts up.
Then the car swerves.
It’s subtle. A drift into his lane. Not enough to register as panic at first—just enough to make him adjust, curse under his breath.
“Idiot,” House mutters.
The light changes. The car brakes too hard.
House swerves.

There’s a split second where his brain catches up and says this is bad, and another where he thinks, absurdly, Wilson’s going to be annoyed I’m late.
The bike clips the bumper.
Metal screams.
House is airborne.
The world flips—sky, asphalt, sky again—and pain detonates through him, white-hot and absolute. His leg goes first. Then his shoulder. Then everything else piles on at once like the universe finally cashing in all its resentment.
He skids across the road, breath ripped from his lungs. Sound comes back in pieces—horns, shouting, the crackle of something burning.

House lies there, staring at the sky.
So this is it, his brain offers helpfully. Motorcycle. Very on brand.
He tries to move. His body refuses.
Pain crashes over him in waves so strong he almost laughs. Of course it hurts. Of course it does. He deserves this. The thought settles in easily, comfortably, like an old coat.

He thinks of Wilson—not dramatically, not with any grand revelation—just a flicker of an image: Wilson standing in his office, arms crossed, pretending not to worry.
He’s going to be mad, House thinks hazily. I didn’t answer my phone.

Darkness creeps in at the edges of his vision.
Figures, he thinks, and then there’s nothing at all.

_______________

Wilson sees the blood first.
It’s on House’s hair, matted dark against pale skin. On his jacket—his stupid, beat-up leather jacket—cut away at the shoulder. There are wires everywhere, machines beeping in uneven rhythms that Wilson doesn’t like because he knows what steady is supposed to sound like.
House looks… wrong.
Too still. Too quiet.
Wilson stops just inside the trauma bay like he’s hit an invisible wall.

“Oh my God,” he breathes.
Cuddy stands near the foot of the bed, arms folded tight, face drawn. She looks at Wilson and for once doesn’t say anything sharp or administrative. Just nods, like yes, it’s really this bad.
Wilson steps closer, heart hammering so hard it hurts.

House’s face is scraped and bruised, lips slightly parted around an oxygen mask. There’s a gash at his temple, hastily stitched, and Wilson has to look away before his chest caves in.

“Hey,” Wilson whispers, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “You idiot.”
House doesn’t respond.
Wilson reaches out before he can stop himself, fingers brushing House’s uninjured hand. It’s cold.
Panic flares, sharp and vicious.

“He’s alive,” Wilson says, not looking at Cuddy. “You said he was alive.”
“He is,” she answers immediately. “James—he is. He’s just unconscious. They’ve stabilized him for now.”
For now.
Wilson swallows hard, nodding like he understands, like his entire world isn’t tilting sideways.
“I called him,” Wilson says quietly. “He didn’t answer.”
Cuddy’s expression softens, just a fraction. “He was already on the road.”
Wilson closes his eyes.

They move House to imaging. The doors close, and suddenly there’s nothing to do.
That’s when it gets unbearable.
Foreman arrives first, jaw tight, eyes sharp with professional worry barely masking something personal. He takes one look at Wilson and exhales.
“CT?”

“Full trauma scan,” Cuddy says. “Head, spine, leg. Possible internal bleeding.”
Foreman nods, then frowns. “He wasn’t wearing a helmet.”
Wilson looks up sharply. “What?”
“They found it twenty feet from the bike,” Foreman says. “Cracked.”
Wilson’s hands curl into fists. “Of course he wasn’t.”
Silence stretches.
“This is why,” Foreman says, unable to stop himself, “he shouldn’t be riding that thing.”
Wilson rounds on him. “Now is not the time.”
Foreman stiffens. “I’m not blaming—”

“Yes, you are,” Wilson snaps, voice breaking through despite his best effort. “You always do this. You talk like he’s a case even when he’s—”
He gestures helplessly toward imaging. “—like that.”
Cuddy steps in fast. “Enough. Both of you.”
They fall quiet, but the tension lingers, thick and heavy.

Minutes tick by. Every second stretches. Wilson stares at the closed doors like he can will them open.
“What if,” Wilson says suddenly, softly, “what if he has brain damage?”
Foreman hesitates. “Let’s not—”
“He already has chronic pain, an addiction, half a leg that barely works,” Wilson continues, voice low and raw. “How much more does he get to lose before it’s enough?”
Cuddy looks at him sharply then, really looks.
“James,” she says carefully, “you’re not his doctor right now.”

Wilson lets out a shaky laugh. “I never am.”
Another silence.
Then Foreman says quietly, “He’s tough.”
Wilson nods, staring at the floor. “Yeah. That’s what scares me.”

Because toughness is what lets House survive everything.

And it’s also what lets him keep destroying himself.
Wilson presses his thumb into his palm, grounding himself, heart aching with all the words he’s never said and the terrifying thought that he might have waited too long.

The doors to imaging finally open.
Wilson is on his feet instantly, heart slamming into his ribs. Cuddy straightens, all sharp lines and controlled posture snapping back into place. Foreman’s expression goes professional in a way that makes Wilson’s stomach twist—because Foreman only does that when the news isn’t good.
The radiologist doesn’t waste time.

“CT shows a subdural hematoma,” she says. “Left side. It’s expanding.”
Wilson feels the floor tilt. “Expanding?”
“Yes,” she confirms. “There’s increased intracranial pressure. He’s not waking up because of the bleed.”
Cuddy exhales slowly. “How bad?”
“Bad enough that waiting is risky,” the radiologist replies. “We’re also seeing multiple fractures—clavicle, two ribs, and his right tibia has a comminuted fracture.”

Wilson barely hears that part. His brain is stuck on bleed. Pressure. Not waking up.
Foreman swears under his breath. “That explains the unequal pupils.”
Cuddy’s jaw tightens. “Surgery.”
“Yes,” the radiologist says. “He needs a craniotomy. Soon.”

The word lands like a gunshot.
Wilson grips the back of a chair, knuckles white. “What happens if you don’t?”
The radiologist meets his eyes. “The bleed worsens. Herniation. Permanent brain damage. Or death.”
Silence crashes down.
Cuddy turns to Wilson. “We need consent.”
Wilson blinks. “What?”
“He’s unconscious,” she says gently. “No DNR on file. No advance directive. You’re his next of kin.”
The words feel surreal. Next of kin. Like a title he never asked for but somehow earned just by staying.

Wilson’s mouth goes dry. “I—I can sign.”
Foreman looks between them. “This isn’t routine. There’s risk. Significant risk.”
Wilson snaps his head up. “I know what a craniotomy is.”
Foreman holds his gaze. “Given House’s history—pain, addiction, possible noncompliance—recovery could be complicated.”
Wilson laughs, sharp and humorless. “Recovery is always complicated with him.”
Cuddy softens. “James. Look at me.”
He does, reluctantly.
“There’s a chance,” she says carefully, “that even if surgery goes well, he won’t be the same. Cognitive changes. Memory issues. Personality shifts.”
Wilson’s chest tightens painfully.

House without his mind, his sarcasm, his brilliance, House who already defines himself by what he is instead of who he loves or lets love him.
Wilson swallows hard. “He’d hate that.”
“Yes,” Cuddy agrees. “But he’d hate dying more.”
Wilson closes his eyes.
You idiot, he thinks, not for the first time. You should’ve told him.
He opens them again, resolve hardening through the fear.

“Do it,” Wilson says. “Save him. Whatever it takes.”
Cuddy nods, already reaching for the forms. “I’ll call neurosurgery.”
As she walks away, Foreman stays.
“He might wake up angry,” Foreman says quietly.
Wilson huffs a shaky breath. “That means he woke up.”

Foreman gives a small nod. “I’ll prep the team.”
Wilson signs the consent with a trembling hand, his signature uneven, then stares at the paper like it might change its mind.
When they wheel House past him toward the OR, Wilson reaches out again, squeezing his hand just once.

“Don’t you dare,” Wilson whispers fiercely. “You don’t get to leave.”
House doesn’t answer.
And as the OR doors swing closed, Wilson is left standing in the hallway with the weight of the decision pressing down on him—and the terrifying realization that the man he loves is about to have his brain cut open…

…and Wilson still hasn’t said the words that matter most.

Chapter Text

_____________

The OR lights are blinding. Sterile. Cold. Too clean to be safe, Wilson thinks, though he isn’t in there.
The surgeons work like a single organism: hands precise, machines beeping in constant rhythm, House’s life hanging in the balance. Foreman oversees the craniotomy, his voice calm, clipped, clinical. But Wilson knows what’s behind it—the anxiety hidden beneath years of experience.
The hematoma isn’t behaving. It’s larger than scans suggested. Blood pressure is fluctuating. House’s oxygen saturation drops unexpectedly. Foreman calls out orders rapidly, each word slicing through the tension.

“Pack and suction,” he commands. “Clamp the middle meningeal artery—now!”
A nurse swears softly. Another responds instantly. Wilson watches on the monitor outside the glass window, fingers curled around the edge of the counter, knuckles white. He doesn’t dare breathe too deeply—he’s terrified that if he does, it’ll be the one thing that tips the balance.
The anesthesiologist’s voice cuts through the sterile haze: “BP dropping—dopamine on the line.”
Wilson’s stomach twists. Dopamine. Blood pressure. He doesn’t fully understand, but he knows enough. This is bad. This is really bad.

A sudden alarm flashes on one of the monitors. Heart rate. Spiking.
Foreman doesn’t panic, but Wilson can see it—tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches. He’s controlling chaos, and Wilson knows all the while he’s silently cursing that it’s House. Always House.

Minutes feel like hours. Every second stretches into an eternity. Wilson can barely move. His hands shake violently now, nails digging into his palms.

Why didn’t I tell him?
He hears the words echo in his mind, over and over. He should’ve said them. He should’ve told House he loved him. That he always had.

The surgical team works methodically, slowly, expertly—but every cut, every shift of instruments, is a reminder that House’s life is hanging by a thread, and Wilson is powerless.
Then Foreman calls out, calm but tight: “We’re stabilizing. Hematoma removed. Vitals are steady.”

Relief floods Wilson in a wave so strong it nearly knocks him off his feet. He almost can’t believe it. But he doesn’t allow himself to celebrate. Not yet. Not until he sees House’s eyes open.

_______________

Wilson slumps into the hard plastic chair inside houses room. His coat is half on, half off. He doesn’t care. His phone lies forgotten on the table.
The quiet is unbearable. No beeping monitors. No smell of antiseptic. Just the suffocating weight of fear, guilt, and love he’s never dared to voice.
He puts his face in his hands and lets himself finally unravel.

“I should’ve… I should’ve—” He can’t finish the sentence. The words catch in his throat like broken glass.

He see House lying unconscious on the bed, his cheek bruised, his hair plastered to sweat and blood, his hand still warm from life just minutes ago.

“I love you,” he whispers to the empty air. His voice cracks, barely audible. “I’ve always—”
A single sob escapes. Then another.
Cuddy emerges from the OR hallway, checking on him, her face sympathetic but guarded. “James…”
“I’m fine,” he blurts, hating the lie, hating that it’s not true. “I’m fine.”
But he’s not fine. Not in the slightest.

Foreman comes in next, tense and silent. “Vitals stable,” he says quietly, almost like he doesn’t want to break the fragile calm Wilson has left.
Wilson nods numbly, staring at the floor. He’s a mess. A complete, unhinged mess. He doesn’t care. Not now. Not when House is lying on the bed fighting for his life.

He just wants it to be over.

And, more than anything, he wants House to wake up.

____________

The first thing House notices is light.
Not the soft, comforting kind, but the harsh, clinical glare of the ICU, bouncing off white walls and metal rails.

Then the pain hits.
A jagged, sharp, everything hurts kind of pain that radiates from his head down to his broken leg, his ribs, his shoulder. His body is a map of betrayal.
He groans, low and instinctive, but it turns into a cough that leaves him dizzy, gasping.
Something presses against his hand. Soft. Familiar. Warm.

“Hey,” says a voice, trembling just slightly. “You’re awake.”
House opens his eyes fully, blinking against the light. His vision is blurry. Shapes resolve. Faces. Machines. And… Wilson.
Wilson’s there. Sitting too close, hands clutched in his lap, eyes wide and rimmed with red.
House tries to speak, but his throat protests. A dry rasp emerges instead.
“What…?” he croaks.
“You had an accident,” Wilson says quickly, almost a rush. “Motorcycle. You—” He swallows. “You’re in ICU.”

House’s brain struggles to catch up. Motor…cycle…ICU… Wilson’s here… alive… panic? Fear? Confusion? It all collides in a foggy mess.
His eyes flick to the monitor. Numbers. Beeping. Machines he vaguely remembers from other emergencies, but nothing feels familiar.
Pain spikes in his head—sharp, throbbing, relentless. He winces, pressing a hand to his temple, forgetting for a moment that it hurts everywhere.

“Head,” he mutters. “Hurts. Everywhere.”
Wilson flinches at the rawness, leans closer. “Yeah. I know. I—” He stops. He doesn’t finish, but House sees it in his eyes: the fear, the guilt, the oh God please don’t leave me undercurrent.
House tries to sit up. Immediately regrets it. His body rebels. The pain is too much. His leg, broken; ribs, fractured; shoulder, dislocated or bruised beyond recognition. He groans again, low and frustrated.

“Relax,” Wilson hisses, gripping his hand. “Stay still. Don’t move.”
House’s confusion sharpens. “I… accident?” His words are slow, deliberate. “Why—?”
Wilson swallows hard. “You’re alive. That’s why. That’s all that matters right now.”
House squints at him. Something flickers—a hint of sarcasm, the old defiance trying to fight through the fog. “Always dramatic,” he mutters.
Wilson’s lips tremble. “You have no idea.”
Another pause. House’s eyelids droop. Dizziness overtakes him. “Vicodin,” he croaks, voice faint, barely audible. “Need…”

Wilson shakes his head, almost violently. “Not yet. You’re too out of it. Doctors—” He bites his lip, then loosens, gently brushing a strand of hair from House’s forehead. “You scared me,” he whispers, almost inaudibly. “Don’t do that again.”
House squints, confused, but somehow… something warms him. Familiar. Safe. He doesn’t have the words, doesn’t even fully understand, but there’s Wilson, and that’s enough. For now.

Machines beep steadily. Pain radiates. His mind foggy. And through it all, Wilson never leaves.
House closes his eyes again, trying to block out the world—but a tiny piece of his awareness notices Wilson’s thumb brushing his hand, over and over, like a lifeline.

For the first time in days, House allows himself… not peace, exactly… but the faintest, most fragile trust.

Chapter Text

____________

House wakes again to sound.
Beeping. Steady. Annoyingly optimistic.
His head throbs in time with it, a dull, grinding ache that feels like someone replaced part of his brain with sandpaper. He blinks, slower this time. The fog is still there, but thinner. Less suffocating.

Memory comes back in pieces.
Wind.
Metal.

A car drifting where it shouldn’t have been.
The awful weightless second before the ground decided to win.
His jaw tightens.

“Bike,” he murmurs.
Wilson startles like he’s been shot. “What?”
“Motorcycle,” House says, voice rough but clearer. “I remember… a car. Bad driving. Shockingly not me.”
There it is. The sarcasm—weak, but alive.
Wilson lets out a breath that sounds dangerously close to a laugh and a sob at the same time. “Yeah,” he says softly. “You got hit. You scared the hell out of everyone.”

House turns his head slightly, immediately regrets it, and groans. “Everyone or just you?”
Wilson freezes.
House squints at him, eyes more focused now. He notices things he didn’t before: Wilson’s rumpled clothes, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his hands won’t stop moving—fidgeting, clenching, releasing.
“You look like crap,” House mutters. “Did I die and haunt you for a week?”
Wilson huffs despite himself. “You’ve been out for hours.”
“Huh.” House swallows. “You stayed.”
It’s not an accusation. Not a joke. Just… an observation.
Wilson nods. “Yeah.”

Another fragment surfaces, lying on asphalt, sky too blue, pain everywhere, and one clear thought slicing through the haze:

“Wilson’s going to be mad I’m late.”

House exhales slowly. “I didn’t answer my phone.”
Wilson’s throat tightens. “No. You didn’t.”
“I should apologize,” House says. Then, after a beat, “Not sorry enough to stop doing it.”
Wilson laughs weakly, turning his face away before House can see how close he is to breaking. He presses his fingers to his eyes, breathing carefully, like if he inhales wrong he’ll fall apart completely.
House watches him. Really watches him.
Something feels… off. Not wrong. Just heavier than usual.

“You cried,” House says quietly.
Wilson stiffens. “No, I didn’t.”
House lifts an eyebrow with what little strength he has. “Your eyes are red. Your voice is wrecked. You’ve been holding my hand like I’m a life raft. Either you cried or you’ve developed feelings.”
Wilson’s breath catches.
The room goes very still.
House’s expression softens—not by much, but enough. “That was a joke,” he adds. “Mostly.”
Wilson turns back, eyes shining now, unshed tears trembling at the edge. “You almost died,” he says, voice low and raw. “Do you have any idea what that does to people?”
House shrugs as best he can. “People are overrated.”

“I’m not talking about people,” Wilson snaps and then stops himself, pressing his lips together. He looks down at House’s hand, still tangled in his own. His thumb brushes over House’s knuckles without him seeming to realize he’s doing it.
“I thought I lost you,” Wilson whispers.
The words hang between them, fragile and terrifying.
House swallows. His sarcasm falters for once. “You didn’t.”
“No,” Wilson agrees softly. “I didn’t.”
Silence stretches. Machines beep. The world waits.
“I should say something,” Wilson murmurs, more to himself than to House.
House’s eyes search his face. “That sounds ominous.”

Wilson lets out a shaky breath, a half-laugh that’s more pain than humor. “You’d hate it.”
“Then definitely say it.”
Wilson opens his mouth.
Closes it.
His eyes fill despite his best efforts. “I—” His voice breaks. He stops, shakes his head. “Not now. You need rest.”

House frowns faintly. “That’s a terrible excuse.”
Wilson smiles sadly. “It’s my specialty.”
He squeezes House’s hand once, gently, like a promise he’s not ready to explain.
“Sleep,” Wilson says. “I’ll be right here.”
House watches him for a long moment, then finally nods, exhaustion dragging him back under.
As his eyes close, one last thought drifts through his mind clearer than the pain, clearer than the fog:

Whatever Wilson didn’t say… it mattered.

And for the first time, House isn’t sure whether that thought scares him…

or makes him feel strangely, dangerously safe.

_____________

House wakes to the sound of someone pretending not to watch him.
It’s subtle—too subtle for anyone but him. The way Wilson’s posture stiffens just a fraction when House shifts. The way his breathing changes, like he’s been holding it and forgot to let it go.

“Stop hovering,” House mutters.
Wilson startles. “I’m not hovering.”
“You’re medically hovering,” House says. “It’s worse. You’re thinking about my vitals.”
Wilson exhales, rubs a hand over his face. “You had brain surgery.”
“And yet,” House says dryly, “I woke up with you still lying to me. A miracle.”
Wilson almost smiles. Almost.
There it is again—that thing. That weight in the room. House frowns.

“You didn’t finish your sentence,” House says.
Wilson looks up. “What sentence?”
“The one you aborted yesterday,” House replies. “The dramatic pause. The shiny eyes. The I should say something moment.”
Wilson’s jaw tightens. “You were half-conscious.”
“Still smarter than you,” House says. Then, quieter, “What didn’t you say?”
Silence.

The ICU door opens before Wilson can answer.
Cuddy walks in with Foreman, both mid-conversation. They stop short when they take in the scene: Wilson seated too close to the bed, House watching him with an intensity that has nothing to do with pain or medication.
Cuddy raises an eyebrow.
Foreman notices everything.

“Well,” Foreman says carefully, “good to see you awake, House.”
“Disappointing, I know,” House replies. “You were probably enjoying being right about me for once.”
Foreman smirks, but his eyes flick to Wilson’s hand—still resting on the bed rail, close enough that it’s obvious he hasn’t moved far since yesterday.
Cuddy crosses her arms. “How’s the headache?”
House shrugs. “Like someone tried to evict my brain with a spoon.”
“That’s normal,” she says. “You’re stable. Still ICU for now.”

“Can I go home?” House asks.
“No,” Cuddy and Foreman say in unison.
Wilson doesn’t even look up. “Absolutely not.”
House blinks. “Wow. United front. Should I be worried?”
Foreman clears his throat. “House… you coded for thirty seconds in the OR.”

That lands.
House’s humor falters. Just for a moment. “That’s inconvenient.”
“It’s serious,” Cuddy says. “You’re lucky.”
House snorts softly. “People keep saying that.”

Cuddy studies him, then shifts her gaze to Wilson. Her tone changes—gentler, but sharper underneath. “James. You should take a break.”
Wilson shakes his head immediately. “I’m fine.”
“You’ve been here for nearly twelve hours,” she says. “He’s stable. He’s awake. He doesn’t need you hovering.”
House smirks. “Objection. I do need him hovering.”
Wilson shoots him a look. “House.”
Cuddy doesn’t miss that. Her eyes narrow slightly.
“Foreman,” she says casually, “can you check his chart?”

Foreman nods, but he doesn’t look at the chart. He looks at them.
House watches the exchange with growing interest.
“So,” House says lightly, “am I dying, or is this an intervention?”
Cuddy sighs. “We’ll give you a minute.”

She steers Foreman toward the door. As they step into the hallway, Foreman murmurs, “You see it too, right?”
Cuddy doesn’t hesitate. “I saw it yesterday.”
Foreman leans against the wall. “Wilson was wrecked.”

“I’ve never seen him like that,” Cuddy admits. “Not with patients. Not even with Amber.”
Foreman exhales. “House almost died.”
“People almost die around House all the time,” Cuddy says. “This is different.”
Foreman nods slowly. “Yeah.”

____________

House waits until the door clicks shut.

“You gonna tell me,” he says quietly, “or should I start guessing?”
Wilson looks down at his hands. “House—”
“I was unconscious,” House says. “You were falling apart. That’s not coincidence.”
Wilson lets out a long, shaky breath. “You don’t get to psychoanalyze me after brain surgery.”
“I absolutely do.”

Another pause.
Wilson’s voice drops. “I thought I lost you.”
House softens. “You said that.”
“I didn’t say the rest,” Wilson replies.
House’s eyes search his face. “Say it now.”
Wilson swallows hard. His eyes glisten again, but this time he doesn’t look away.
“I care about you,” he says. “More than I should. More than is… safe.”
House’s breath catches, just barely.
“That’s it?” he asks, masking it with sarcasm. “That’s the big secret?”
Wilson laughs weakly. “Don’t do that.”

House tilts his head. “You love me.”
The word hangs there bold, terrifying, undeniable.
Wilson doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t need to.
House exhales slowly, heart pounding in a way painkillers can’t touch. “Well,” he murmurs, “that explains the hovering.
Wilson presses his lips together, tears finally slipping free. “You’re impossible.”

House reaches out slow, careful, and hooks one finger around Wilson’s sleeve, grounding him.
“You don’t get to almost confess,” House says softly, “and then not finish. Not after I nearly died.”

Wilson looks at him, eyes raw and honest.
“I’m terrified,” Wilson admits.
House smirks faintly. “Good. That makes two of us.”

He shifts in bed and immediately regrets it.

“Don’t,” Wilson says softly.
House blinks. “Were you planning to sleep, or is this another medically sanctioned stalking situation?”
Wilson sits in the chair beside the bed, jacket folded over the back, tie long abandoned. He looks exhausted. Wrecked. Like he ran a marathon powered entirely by fear.

“You’re not supposed to move,” Wilson says.
“You say that like I enjoy this.”
Wilson snorts despite himself. He stands, adjusts House’s pillows with careful hands, pausing longer than necessary, like he’s afraid House might break if he’s not gentle enough.
The room settles again.
For a while, neither of them speaks.
It’s… strange. Not uncomfortable. Just different. Like the air has shifted and neither of them knows the new rules yet.

House stares at the ceiling. “You should go home.”
Wilson doesn’t answer.
“I mean it,” House continues. “You smell like hospital and bad decisions.”
Wilson finally looks at him. “I’m not leaving.”
House’s jaw tightens. “You can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Choosing me,” House says quietly.
Wilson doesn’t hesitate. “I already did.”
That lands harder than any insult ever has.
House turns his head, studies Wilson’s face in the low light. The sarcasm doesn’t come. Instead, something raw slips through.

“I’m bad at this,” House admits.
Wilson’s voice is gentle. “I know.”
“I hurt people,” House says. “On purpose. Accidentally. Eventually.”
“I know that too.”
House huffs. “You’re terrible at self-preservation.”
Wilson smiles sadly. “Yeah. But I’m really good at loving idiots.”

Silence stretches again but it’s different now. Charged. Electric. Like a wire pulled too tight.
House’s hand twitches against the sheet. He hesitates. Then slowly, deliberately he reaches out.
Wilson freezes when House’s fingers brush his wrist.
“You can stop me,” House murmurs.
Wilson doesn’t move.
So House lets his fingers curl—not gripping, just there. An anchor.
Wilson’s breath stutters.

“You almost died,” Wilson says quietly.
House looks away. “I didn’t.”
“You almost did,” Wilson insists. “And I can’t—” He breaks off, swallowing hard. “I can’t pretend this is nothing anymore.”
House nods once. “Good. Because I don’t think it is.”
Wilson’s eyes meet his. The moment stretches. Too close. Too real.
For one terrifying second, Wilson thinks House might lean in.
Instead, House says softly, “Stay.”
It’s not a command. It’s not a joke.
It’s a request.
Wilson exhales, relief flooding him. He pulls the chair closer, sitting right by the bed now, their knees almost touching.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

House closes his eyes, exhaustion finally winning. His grip loosens but doesn’t let go entirely.
The monitors beep steadily. Night wraps around them.

For the first time, House lets someone stay without pushing them away.
And Wilson stays—watching the rise and fall of House’s chest, heart aching, terrified, and impossibly hopeful.
Fragile.
Electric.
And very, very real.

Chapter Text

_____________

Morning arrives without asking permission.
Sunlight creeps through the blinds, pale and intrusive, landing right on House’s face. He groans, shifts—and realizes two things at once:
He’s still in a hospital bed.
Wilson is asleep in the chair beside him, head tipped back, mouth slightly open, one hand still resting on the mattress like he never meant to let go.
House freezes.

Oh.
His chest tightens—not pain this time. Something worse.

He watches Wilson for a long moment. The exhaustion etched into his face. The way he looks softer when he’s not guarding himself. The proof—undeniable, terrifying—that Wilson stayed. All night.
House’s brain does what it does best.

Abort. Abort. Abort.
He shifts deliberately, wincing a little louder than necessary.

Wilson startles awake instantly. “House—?”
“Morning, Sunshine,” House says, voice already armoring itself in sarcasm. “You snore.”
Wilson blinks, disoriented. Then relief floods his face. “You’re awake.”
“Observant,” House replies. “Must be why they pay you the medium bucks.”
Wilson smiles faintly, then frowns. “How are you feeling?”
House shrugs. “Like I lost a fight with a truck and then insulted its mother.”
Wilson exhales. “That’s… actually reassuring.”
Before House can respond, the door opens.

A nurse steps in with a chart—and stops short.
Her eyes flick from House… to Wilson… to the chair pulled far too close to the bed.
“Oh,” she says.
House smirks. “Don’t worry. He just likes my charming personality.”
The nurse raises an eyebrow, unconvinced, but moves on with vitals. Another nurse pokes her head in moments later, clocking the same thing. A look is exchanged. Quiet. Knowing.
Wilson shifts, suddenly self-conscious. House feels it and panic spikes.
This is bad. This is visible. This ends with pain.
The door opens again.
Cuddy.

She takes in the scene in one glance: Wilson rumpled and too close, House more alert than he should be, the charged silence neither of them knows how to dismantle.
Her mouth tightens. “Morning.”
House grins. “If you’re here to congratulate me on surviving, you’re late.”
“I’m here to check on my patient,” Cuddy says pointedly. Her eyes slide to Wilson. “And apparently his… personal oncologist.”
Wilson flushes. “I was just—”
“Hovering,” House cuts in quickly. “He’s very good at it.”
Cuddy’s gaze sharpens. “House.”
“What?” he snaps. “He didn’t break any rules. He sat in a chair. Very scandalous.”
Cuddy studies them both for a beat too long. “We’ll talk later.”

She leaves.
The door clicks shut.
The room feels smaller.
House’s heart pounds. His brain scrambles for distance, for safety, for control.
So he does what he always does.
He pulls away.
“Well,” House says lightly, too lightly, “this was fun. Near-death experiences really bring people together. Trauma bonding—very trendy.”
Wilson’s smile fades. “House…”
“You don’t have to keep pretending,” House continues, words sharp now. “I’m awake. I’m alive. You can go back to your life.”
Wilson stands slowly. “That’s not what this is.”
“Yes, it is,” House snaps. “You got scared. You almost lost me. People say stupid things when they’re scared.”
Wilson’s eyes darken. “I didn’t say anything.”
House laughs, brittle. “Exactly.”

Silence crashes down between them.
House looks away, jaw tight. “I’m not doing this.”
Wilson steps closer. “Doing what?”
“Letting you ruin your life over me,” House says. “You always do this. You fall in love with broken things and then act surprised when they cut you.”
Wilson’s breath catches.
“That’s not fair,” he says quietly.
House doesn’t look at him. “It’s accurate.”
Wilson stares at him for a long moment—hurt, anger, fear, love all colliding.
Then he says it.

“House,” Wilson says, voice steady despite everything, “I love you.”
The words land—soft and devastating.
House’s breath stutters. His eyes snap back to Wilson. “Don’t.”
“I’m not scared,” Wilson continues. “I’m not confused. And this isn’t because you almost died.”
House shakes his head, panic flaring. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” Wilson says. “I love you. I’ve loved you for years. I just finally ran out of excuses not to say it.”
The room is unbearably quiet.
House swallows. “You’ll regret it.”
“Maybe,” Wilson says softly. “But not saying it would’ve been worse.”

House looks at him really looks and something cracks. Fear. Long-buried. Trembling.
“You deserve better,” House whispers.
Wilson steps closer still, close enough now that House can feel his warmth. “I deserve the truth. And this is it.”
House’s eyes shine. He looks terrified.
“So what,” House says hoarsely, “you’re just… staying?”
Wilson nods. “If you’ll let me.”
House exhales, shoulders sagging as the fight drains out of him.

“…I don’t know how to do this,” he admits.
Wilson reaches out, careful, and takes House’s hand.
“Neither do I,” he says. “We’ll screw it up. Probably a lot.”
House huffs a shaky breath. “That’s comforting.”
Wilson smiles through tears. “I’m not going anywhere.”
House squeezes his hand—weak, but real.
Outside the room, a nurse passes by, smiling knowingly.
And down the hall, Cuddy pauses, glances back once and sighs.

__________

House stares at their joined hands like they’re a foreign object.
Wilson’s fingers are warm. Steady. Real.
That’s the problem.

“You really are terrible at timing,” House mutters.
Wilson blinks. “I literally almost lost you.”
“Exactly,” House says. “Now I can’t even pretend this is hypothetical.”
Wilson waits. He’s learned—over years—that pushing House right now would end badly. Silence is safer. It gives House space to trip over his own emotions instead of running from them.
House swallows.
“I don’t do… this,” he says finally. “I don’t say things that make me weak.”
Wilson’s voice is gentle. “You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do,” House snaps, then winces as pain lances through his head. He breathes through it, then exhales, quieter. “Because if I don’t, I’ll sabotage it. And you.”
Wilson nods once.

House looks at him again, eyes bare now. Stripped of armor.
“I’m not good,” House says. “I’m selfish. I’m mean. I push until people leave.”
“I know.”
“And I love you anyway,” House blurts.
The words come out wrong. Too fast. Too sharp. Like he’s throwing them instead of offering them.
Wilson’s breath catches.
House presses on before he can stop himself. “I love you in a way that’s inconvenient and dangerous and probably stupid. And I hate that you see me like this, because now you know I need you.

Wilson smiles—soft, stunned, wrecked. “You don’t need to make it sound like a diagnosis.”
House huffs. “Everything’s a diagnosis.”
Wilson squeezes his hand. “Say it again.”
House rolls his eyes. “You’re unbearable.”
“House.”
He exhales. “…I love you.”
This time it’s quieter. Honest. Terrifying.
Wilson’s eyes fill, but he laughs softly. “Hi.”
House snorts. “Don’t get used to this.”

Cuddy doesn’t knock.
She steps into the room later that afternoon, arms crossed, expression unreadable. One glance is all it takes—House and Wilson too close, too calm, too together.

“Alright,” she says. “We’re doing this.”
House sighs. “If this is about hospital policy—”
“It’s about you almost dying,” Cuddy cuts in. “And James camping out like a concerned spouse.”
Wilson flushes. “Lisa—”
Cuddy holds up a hand. “I’m not here to yell. I’m here to be very clear.”
She turns to House. “You don’t get to use this as an excuse to spiral.”
House raises an eyebrow. “That’s discriminatory.”
“You don’t get to drag him down with you,” she continues. “And you don’t get special treatment because you finally decided to feel something.”
House’s jaw tightens. “I never asked for—”

“I know,” Cuddy says more softly. “But I’m still responsible for both of you.”
She looks at Wilson. “And you need boundaries. Loving him doesn’t mean sacrificing yourself.”
Wilson nods. “I know.”
Cuddy studies them a moment longer, then sighs. “I’m not stopping this. But I am watching it.”
House smirks faintly. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

___________

Rehab is hell.
House’s leg screams. His head throbs. Physical therapy is humiliating and slow and unfair. He snaps at everyone. Including Wilson.
Especially Wilson.
Some days he won’t talk. Some days he lashes out just to see if Wilson will leave.
Wilson doesn’t.
He argues back. Sets limits. Walks out when House is cruel—and comes back anyway.

“I’m not your painkiller,” Wilson says one night. “I’m not here to numb you.”
House snaps, “Then why are you here?”
Wilson meets his eyes. “Because I love you. And because you’re worth the work.”
House hates that answer.
He also clings to it like oxygen.
There are nights House wakes up shaking, pain spiking, fear crawling under his skin. Wilson sits with him. Doesn’t fix it. Just stays.
Love doesn’t cure House.

It doesn’t take away the pain, or the addiction, or the damage.
But it gives him something he’s never had before.
A reason not to burn everything down.
One slow, painful step at a time.

Chapter Text

____________

The apartment is quiet in that late-evening way that feels earned.
House sits on the couch, leg stretched out, cane abandoned within reach but ignored. The TV hums in the background, forgotten. Wilson is beside him—not hovering, not leaving—just there, shoulder brushing House’s.
House breaks the silence first, because of course he does.

“So,” he says. “We’re officially doing this.”
Wilson smiles faintly. “We’ve been doing this.”
“No,” House replies. “We’ve been orbiting it. This is the part where it becomes a bad idea.”
Wilson turns toward him. “You scared?”
House scoffs. “Of you? Please.”
But he doesn’t look away.
Wilson studies him—really studies him. The guarded expression, the vulnerability House hates letting show, the way his hand flexes slightly against the cushion like he’s bracing for impact.

“I’m not going to disappear,” Wilson says quietly.
House swallows. “That’s what scares me.”
Wilson’s voice softens. “Look at me.”
House does.
The moment stretches fragile, electric, terrifying in its stillness.
“Permission,” Wilson says gently.
House exhales a shaky breath. “If you ask again, I’ll insult you.”
Wilson leans in anyway slow, careful, giving House every chance to pull away.
House doesn’t.

The kiss is tentative. Soft. Barely there at first—just lips brushing, a question more than an answer.
Then House makes a small sound, surprised, and leans in, closing the distance. His hand comes up—unsteady but certain—fingers curling into the front of Wilson’s shirt like he needs the anchor.
Wilson responds immediately, kissing him back with quiet certainty, no rush, no pressure—just warmth and trust and I’m here.
When they finally pull apart, their foreheads rest together.
House lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Well,” he murmurs. “That was inconveniently nice.”
Wilson laughs softly. “High praise.”
House opens his eyes, looks at him—no armor this time.
“I meant it,” House says. “All of it.”
“I know,” Wilson replies. “So did I.”
House’s thumb brushes Wilson’s wrist, grounding himself in the reality of it.
“Don’t make me say it again tonight,” House adds.
Wilson smiles, leans in, presses a kiss to House’s cheek. “No promises.”

House smirks, but he doesn’t pull away.
And for the first time, House doesn’t feel like love is a trap waiting to spring.
It feels like home.

______________

The clinic waiting room smells like disinfectant and impatience.
House limps beside Wilson, cane tapping a familiar rhythm against the tile. He’s mid-complaint—about the coffee, the chairs, the existence of humanity—when Wilson stops short.

“House.”
“What,” House says. “If this is about the coffee again, I already—”
Wilson’s eyes flick past him.
House follows the look.
Cuddy stands near the nurses’ station with Foreman, both pretending very hard not to be watching them. A nurse nearby glances between House and Wilson with open curiosity. A patient stares a little too long.
Audience, House realizes.
His shoulders tense automatically.
Wilson notices. Of course he does.

“You don’t have to,” Wilson says quietly.
House scoffs. “I’m not afraid of people.”
“You’re afraid of meaning it out loud,” Wilson replies gently.
House opens his mouth to deflect—to joke, to insult, to dodge
And stops.
Because this is the part he promised himself he wouldn’t sabotage.
He exhales, slow and steady, then turns back toward Wilson.
Not sarcastic.
Not defensive.
Just… honest.

“You left your jacket in my office,” House says.
Wilson blinks. “I did?”
“Yes,” House replies. “Which is annoying, because now everyone thinks you live there.”
Foreman raises an eyebrow from across the room.
Cuddy’s lips twitch despite herself.
Wilson smiles faintly. “Do you want me to take it home?”
House looks at him for a long moment. Really looks.
Then—loud enough to carry, steady enough not to shake—he says:
“No. I want you to keep it.”
The room goes quiet in that subtle, charged way.
House swallows.

“I love you.”
There it is.
Out loud.
In public.
No armor.
Wilson freezes—then his face softens, eyes shining, breath catching just a little.

“I love you too,” he says, just as clearly.
No one claps. No one gasps.
But Foreman definitely smirks.
Cuddy exhales, relief and resignation mixing into
something almost fond.

A nurse nearby smiles and turns back to her chart.
Life moves on.
House shifts, suddenly aware of how exposed he feels and how strangely okay that is.
“Well,” he mutters, “that was horrifying.”
Wilson laughs, steps closer, brushing his fingers against House’s. “You survived.”
House squeezes his hand.
“Yeah,” he says. “Guess I did.”

They walk on together cane tapping, shoulders brushing, love no longer hidden.
Not perfect.
Just real.
And finally…
out loud.