Chapter Text
In true James Wilson fashion, it's when everything is finally looking up for everyone that he starts to spiral down.
It starts off innocently enough. He just wants to check his weight, and maybe that weight isn't a particularly comforting number, and maybe he doesn't need to eat as much as he does.
Maybe he should go running more often again. Renew his gym membership. He misses being strong, just a little. It’s not like Wilson has that many hobbies.
When he calls his parents, he says he's fine. Everything's fine.
Sam doesn’t really comment on his slow change of lifestyle. She notices the morning runs, of course, the occasional gym visit, but doesn’t seem to think much of it. Wilson’s perfectly fine with that.
His eating habits aren’t particularly affected, he tells himself. He stops buying snacks at work, steps out for fresh air every now and then. House is less available for lunch these days, since he’s spending time with Cuddy. That gives Wilson space to skip lunch, once in a while, when he’s not feeling particularly hungry.
Sometimes he goes for a walk instead. It makes his head feel clearer, he ends up feeling stronger.
House stares at Wilson’s salad. He notices everything, always, but he often also miscalculates the significance of changes. He’s only human, after all, and it’s not like Wilson isn’t fully in denial of what is going to happen as well.
“Are we doing this again? Are you pretending to eat healthy to distract me from my crippling addiction?”
Wilson looks up. “What, are you disappointed there are no fries to steal? It’s not like I’ve never eaten a salad before. It’s a very easy meal.”
“Do you think Cuddy would like cooking?” House asks, and it would be out of the blue if he hadn’t been worried about his new relationship in every other sentence for the past three weeks.
House really wants them to work. Wilson really wants them to work, too, but he shares the worry – though he’ll never admit it, no matter how obvious House thinks he is. For some reason that probably even Dr. Nolan would be incapable of uncovering, House trusts Wilson’s opinions, and while House might claim otherwise, there’s still a difference between things House assumes Wilson’s thinking and the things Wilson says out loud.
Wilson shrugs. “She probably would like your cooking. You’re pretty good at it.”
“Just pretty?”
“You don’t like being called pretty? Huh.”
House gives him a look. Wilson shrugs. Fuck if he knows what Cuddy likes to do, but anyone with taste buds would like House’s cooking.
“Make those chicken egg things that you got Thirteen to taste way back when”, he says.
“Thirteen talked to you about them?”
“Yeah, she wanted the recipe.”
House frowns. And then gets a look on his face, that look. And then gets to his feet and speeds away.
Was it ‘chicken egg’, ‘Thirteen’ or ‘recipe’ that set him off? Wilson smiles to himself and gets back to his salad. To be honest, he doesn’t care for the taste at all, but it makes him less itchy than the fries would’ve. He’ll feel better with a slightly hollow stomach in comparison to a slightly full one.
The first changes he notices (harder edges, lighter step) are such a boost to his self-esteem that he intensifies his routine, eats smaller portions and moves even more. He’d forgotten how good exercise could feel. Every now and then he feels like he’s genuinely glowing.
Eventually Sam notices it, too, properly notices it. At first it’s just a few isolated comments and compliments that Wilson shrugs off with surprising unease for reasons he doesn’t care to name. It all goes as expected, until she catches him completely off-guard:
“Do I know her?”
Wilson freezes. “What?”
“The woman you’re having an affair with – or angling to have an affair with, whichever.”
“I don’t follow”, Wilson says, because he genuinely doesn’t. “I’m not having an affair. I don’t want to have an affair, I’m – where’s this coming from?”
His mind, still high from his work-out, runs through a dozen scenarios that this could be a symptom of. Sam has been unhappy for a while and is looking for a way out, Sam is projecting and is herself having an affair with someone, Sam is insecure because Wilson is suddenly getting in shape. None of them really make sense, because Wilson figures he would’ve noticed something before… this .
“Oh, yeah? Then why the sudden fitness enthusiasm?”
“I just wanted to improve myself”, Wilson says, slowly. “Sam, I don’t understand.”
“All of a sudden?”
“Uh, yeah.”
Sam stares at him. “You’re saying you were unhappy with yourself before?”
Wilson doesn’t want to linger on that. Even thinking about it, how he feels about himself, feels uncomfortable, somehow. He doesn’t want to ponder on that for too long, either.
“A bit.”
“And ‘a bit’ is enough to warrant an entire personality change now?”
“It’s not a personality change! I used to exercise a ton back when... back when I was married to you, and that was while working two jobs, while in med school.”
Sam looks away. “That was almost twenty years ago.”
Wilson tries for a smile. “Are you calling me old? Are middle-aged men not allowed to have the same hobbies?”
They stand in silence. Wilson waits, hopes, wonders. For her answer, for this thing to resolve itself, for what prompted it in the first place.
“You really aren’t seeing someone else?”
“I really am not seeing anyone else.”
That could’ve been the end of it.
Wilson tries to be a little more subtle after that. He makes and eats his salads, still, he goes for his runs and to the gym, but not more than he did before. He tries to dial back a little, tries to be a better boyfriend. More movie nights, more late night walks together, more flowers, chocolates.
House mocks him relentlessly. Wilson tells him he’s projecting.
It makes him antsy, staying home, but he’s anxious about Sam’s reaction if he starts increasing his workouts again. She had a tendency to overreact during their marriage. Wilson tries to fit as much exercise as he can on both sides of his work, so that it’s less noticeable.
Sam likes it, at least. She likes the wine and dine, the attention.
For some reason, Wilson finds himself feeling lonely.
“Goddammit, I didn’t remember relationships being this much work”, House says, throwing himself on Wilson’s office couch.
“For what it’s worth, I really liked the go-karts”, Wilson offers.
“Oh, we’re way past that”, House says. “She said it’s fine that we don’t have a million cutesy common hobbies.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Why does there always have to be a problem?” House asks. “Maybe I’m just tired.”
Wilson puts his hands up in a fine, backing up -gesture – if there is something (and there definitely is) House doesn’t want to talk about it, and Wilson’s not in the mood for pressuring him. He continues staring at his paperwork.
“Feels like we only talk about women and relationships these days”, House says, after a while. “Ew . Disgusting. So what’s up with cancer these days?”
Wilson smiles, doesn’t look up. “Same old, actually, you haven’t missed anything. What’s up with, uh – defensive-vomit-girl, right?”
“Yeah, her”, House says, sounding bored. “Turning out to be a bit of a drag, but then again it’s hard to top my favorite author having syringomyelia.”
Wilson hums. God, he doesn’t have the brain power to concentrate on his work through both House and his hunger.
“Then again, syringomyelia isn’t that good of a zebra”, House continues. “Even more of a let-down that this case isn’t lighting us up. Hey, you haven’t given me cool cases for ages, have you? What’s up with that?”
“It’s a crazy situation, indeed, that your staff, that you have hired, is doing the job that is included in their job description – instead of me, the department head of oncology.”
It was fun, admittedly, trying to think like House to figure which patient file might lure him in. Long hours in Cuddy’s office, long after hours in Cuddy’s office, just trying to find work for House when he himself had loads of it waiting. Yeah, Julie hadn’t really liked that.
“Whatever”, House says. “Lunch? And not the cafeteria variety. Manly lunch. I need a testosterone-filled conversation. Maybe with a steak.”
Wilson snorts. He can’t think of anything more disgusting than a steak at the moment, but he goes to get his coat anyway. It’s been a while since he’s spent time with House outside this building.
Maybe he’s just a little bit tired of all the relationship stuff, too.
After a few weeks, the results are starting to show for real, hints of progress turning into actual progress. Weight has been lost, muscle has been gained. The most important thing to do now, Wilson reckons, is keeping the gained position. No backtracking; meaning under no circumstances can he exercise less or eat more.
Illogically and against all his medical training, Wilson escalates, because life feels easier this way. He feels empty going home and he feels unfocused at work, but while working out is mostly boring, the feeling afterwards is worth all of it. The burn in his muscles and the mantra of one rep more, one step more, one minute more is more soothing than any lullaby could be. It feels like something is askew in his life, and this helps him stay sane through it. It keeps the itch away, so to speak.
His efforts with Sam wane a little. Most of the time, Wilson just doesn't feel up to talking to her. He tries, though, he really does, but it takes more energy than he would like to admit.
“I need to stop coming to you for relationship advice and return to my old ways of coming to you for medical advice”, House says by way of greeting when he enters Wilson’s office.
“She has cancer?” Wilson asks.
“No, she has schizophrenia.”
Oh.
Wilson feels a vague squeeze of guilt in his gut. It’s been a while since the last time he went to see Danny. He’s been deteriorating, lately, gotten more aggressive and standoffish. Sam’s been wanting to meet him, but Wilson’s had to decline because Danny’s doctor doesn’t think it’s a good idea to introduce him to new people at the moment.
It sometimes throws him off, the thought that Sam would be new to Danny. Danny doesn’t know Bonnie or Julie either, which feels bizarre. He would’ve liked Julie, Wilson thinks, and Julie would’ve liked him. In principle Danny does know House, or at least he did for a while after meeting him, but he didn’t remember House the last time Wilson mentioned him.
“Right. I’m known for my gifts in psychiatry.”
“If you’re attempting to deny being a home-trained expert in schizophrenia, I’m not buying it.”
Wilson shrugs.
“Anyway, I’m going over to sleep at Cuddy’s tonight”, House says, and there’s the reason he’s bouncing his good leg anxiously. “Any tips? You’re the one that’s good with kids.”
“I don’t think you need my tips for this”, Wilson says. “Just be your charming self.”
House gives him a murderous look.
“I’m serious”, Wilson says, holding his hands up. “You are also good with kids, whether you admit it or not. The two of us have very different tactics, and I hardly think it’s a good idea for you to attempt to bastardize mine.”
House still seems uncharacteristically nervous. Oh dear. Cuddy had better be gentle to him with this whole thing and practice extreme care with introducing him to Rachel, for everyone’s sake.
“Seriously. Don’t overthink it. Swear a little less, try not to talk about porn, sex or drugs, and you’ll be completely fine.”
House points at him with narrowed eyes. “I’m holding you on to that. If it goes south, I’m telling Cuddy I was following your advice.”
Wilson rolls his eyes and watches as House leaves his office.
It’s very quiet afterwards. The thought of Wilson going home to his girlfriend seems heavy. He’d much rather just stay here, sleep on this couch. The more he thinks on it, the more ideal it seems; to hit the gym, go for a run, enjoy the gratification he gets from exercise, and then just sleep right here.
His stomach rumbles.
His office feels too big for him.
Eventually Wilson does go home. Sam’s up and waiting. The remnants of yesterday’s leftovers are in the kitchen, but Sam has opened a bottle of wine to go with it. Not a bad choice, except when Wilson sits down to eat his portion, painstakingly slow despite being ravenous, Sam continues drinking.
Wilson’s getting unpleasant flashbacks to his first marriage. This is the part where it starts, Sam gets pissed off, and eventually it'll end with her alone in their bed and Wilson cleaning up glass and wondering how the fuck he fell for this again.
“We need to talk”, Sam says.
Wilson's heart skips a beat. Maybe several beats.
“Okay. What about?”
“The other woman. Do you really think that I’m too stupid to see what’s happening?”
“I don’t understand”, Wilson says. “Sam, I’m not lying to you.”
“Of course not. You just happen to be happy when you come and when you go but never here, you just happen to avoid eating your meals with me, it’s all just a huge coincidence.”
“It’s no coincidence! It’s a hobby and I happen to enjoy it! You’d rather I didn’t move, didn’t have fun working out?”
“You want me to believe that this is just a mid-life crisis? That you had a great epiphany and decided to better your ways?” Sam retorts.
“Would that be so hard to believe?” Wilson asks. “Except there is no crisis. I’m doing the same thing I did when we were together twenty years ago!”
“Sure you are, sure it’s just a hobby that you’re on a ridiculous diet, sure it’s just a hobby that you’re exercising madly, totally without any motivation”, Sam says mockingly. “Definitely typical for men your age.”
Wilson wants to scream, to shout, to throw his hands in the air and walk off, but just like all that time ago, he merely freezes. Words escape him, he flounders after explanations and new ways to put his thoughts into coherent sentences.
What comes out is a weak “there is no one, Sam.”
“Stop it”, she says, raising her voice. “Stop fucking lying to me!”
The bottle shatters on the floor, and along with it Wilson’s hopes of salvaging this relationship.
Safe to say that Wilson decides to avoid going home for a few days afterwards. Like before, he had been the one to clean up the shards this time as well and ended up with a couple cuts on his palm for his troubles. He’s more than a little pissed about that.
Luckily, House is an excellent friend when you have a dire need for a distraction, and so Wilson gets pulled into babysitting Rachel.
Going by the premise, everything should have gone just fine. Wilson likes working and hanging out with children; he has wanted some of his own, during different points of his life. He doesn’t mind babysitting, either: he has babysat for Cuddy several times before.
What he does not like is first trying to find a missing dime in his boss’ daughter (that she accidentally ate because they looked away for all of two seconds to have an extremely mature argument) with the help of an ultrasound machine and then having to argue with House about whether they should go for the dime with a scope. It’s so stupid, and it could all be avoided by telling Cuddy.
Then again, telling Cuddy may also have unforeseen consequences, that risk definitely exists.
Oh well.
Eventually, they end up figuring there was no dime in the first place – except that hours later, in the middle of the night, House calls Wilson. It’s bound to piss Sam off, even though Wilson’s already sleeping on the couch, but he answers it anyway.
“Rachel is trying to get rid of me”, House declares.
Wilson closes his eyes and pretends he’s not smiling. “Oh?”
“She did eat a dime”, House explains. “You’re not a useless doctor after all.”
“And Cuddy found it”, Wilson fills in.
House doesn’t sound like he’s had his insides ripped out. In fact, it sounds like he’s inside a building still, so he hasn’t even been thrown out. There’s also no text of you’re fired from Cuddy, so the whole thing seems to have gone over relatively well.
“She asked where Rachel had got the dime”, House says, voice dramatically dark, “and she said – without hesitation, I might add – ‘House!’”
Wilson laughs. He keeps laughing after House ends the call.
The next day, Foreman stops him in the hallway.
“Something's been up with House, he was acting really weird yesterday”, he says. “Do you know anything about that?”
Wilson stares back at him. “Nope.”
Foreman narrows his eyes. “Taub said –”
“I'm sure, but nope.”
Wilson quickens his pace and turns the corner so smoothly that he leaves Foreman behind. There is no helping the smile that forms on his face. After everything with Sam, the time spent with House and Rachel came as a real gift.
During the whole debacle, Wilson ate like he used to – they had lunch together with House, they ordered Chinese together (although with Wilson’s wallet), it ended up fine. He refuses to acknowledge that the spring in his step has anything to do with that.
House is making his team stay late for tests, which is nothing unusual, and Wilson figures that since he’s not in a hurry to go anywhere, he might as well lend a hand. He’s been doing that less and less as the years have gone by, with his own tumultuous personal life taking up space and his relationship with House having gone through multiple roller coasters. Besides, he likes House’s fellows – both Taub and Chase can be excellent company during and outside of work.
The only downside is that House’s team can sometimes be just as good as House himself is when it comes to… well, noticing things.
“Problems at home?” Chase asks without even looking up after half an hour of work in comfortable silence.
“Some”, Wilson answers vaguely, then decides fuck it, and adds: “She thinks I’m cheating on her.”
“Are you?” Taub asks.
“No, I said she thinks I am.”
Chase does look up at that. “Huh. Why?”
“Insecure about… me working out, I think. It’s really stupid, but she won’t listen to me.”
Taub snorts.
“I mean, you have seriously been getting into shape lately”, Chase says. “Looking good, by the way.”
“Thanks”, Wilson says with no small amount of unease, “but it really hasn’t been to – get with anyone. Not even Sam. I just thought I’d get back into exercising.”
Was he that out of shape before that no one could imagine him ever exercising regularly? That no one can see that he's always worked hard, that there hasn't been a day in his fucking life that he hasn't put effort into what he looks like?
The sudden surge of bitterness catches him off-guard.
“So there really is no one new?” Taub asks.
Wilson rolls his eyes. “Is that so hard to believe? That I’m faithful?”
He had said more or less the same thing to Sam, come to think of it.
Chase shrugs. “I guess not.”
“Such ringing endorsement. I need to keep Sam from talking to any of you”, Wilson mutters. “You’ve been listening to House too much.”
Also, what does it say about his persona that everyone is so ready to believe that instead of going through an early midlife-crisis he’s a cheater – and that he’s such a goal oriented cheater that he’d go through an entire lifestyle change and begin a rigorous exercising routine?
It says absolutely nothing, Wilson reminds himself, because this is a team filled with Stockholm-syndromed lunatics.
Still, it kind of stings.
House drags Wilson along – or rather Wilson’s wallet – to lunch.
“Cuddy likes women”, he declares as they sit down.
Wilson hums. “No problem, you do too – see, another thing you have in common.”
“Wants me to hire one.”
House reaches over to steal the other half of Wilson's sandwich. Wilson pretends to look annoyed about it and makes no attempt of retaliation. He’s not feeling all that hungry today anyway.
“That I know, since she keeps pestering me to pester you about it.”
“Well, worry no more, Cuddy did the dirty work and hired a student”, House says, sounding somewhat disgraced.
That’s genuinely funny. Seems like Cuddy’s still got it, despite the relationship.
“She any good?”
“Will be a great doctor, but right now she’s an annoyance.”
At that, Wilson smiles a little – that’s what House has said about all his fellows at some point. “You like annoyances, to be fair.”
House makes a face. “No, but she’s all moral. She likes honesty. She believes in people. She likes thinking about consciences and – huh, she sounds a little like you. Hey, maybe Cuddy’s jealous and trying to replace you.”
Wilson snorts. “I don’t think I’ve fit that description or fulfilled my job as anyone's conscience for a while.”
It doesn’t come out quite as glib as he intended. They’ve been through a lot of shit together, and it would be nothing but brutally correct to claim that Wilson has lost his status as the resident good guy. As a result of this train of thought, his mind plays a reel of the highlights of the worst things he’s done in this friendship, and Wilson can feel his small smile turn slightly bitter. Guilt gnaws at him, once again. Old events have been coming back to haunt him more, lately – maybe because of all the fighting with Sam.
The sandwich on his plate looks unappetizing, all of a sudden.
House gives him a quick, indecipherable look before his expression settles back into the feigned contemplation. “Huh. Maybe I should check whether Masters likes monster trucks. Just in case.”
Much later, House steps into his office rattling about irrelevant sports scores of games neither of them has bothered to watch. He radiates nervous energy, which means he wants to ask something relatively important and personal but has yet to come up with a flattering way of posing the question. Cuddy troubles, Wilson would guess, but he won’t say anything in case that would get House to retreat prematurely.
House is probably here to tell what he did regarding his latest patient; lie for his sake or follow Cuddy’s orders. Wilson doesn’t have to wait for his answer for long; House has never been particularly patient.
“I lied to Cuddy”, House says, suddenly.
“I thought you were done with coming to me for advice about her”, Wilson says.
“Well, I certainly should be, seeing as you have another relationship about to go down the drain”, House replies, scrunching up his nose with distaste.
Wilson can feel his face fall. “Oh, come on.”
“Cheap shot?” House asks, irritatingly knowing. “How long have you been on the couch?”
“Long enough. Do you do nothing but gossip in diagnostics?”
“You answered my phone call in the middle of the night and I didn’t even hear you switch rooms! And you’ve been doing that pitiful self-hatred thing all week. Come on, now. As if I’ve ever needed help recognizing the downturns of your pathetic life.”
“Can we get back to Cuddy? So you lied. Are you worried she’s going to find out?”
House shrugs. “I’m probably going to lie again. She’ll find out about some part of it eventually.”
Wilson nods. “Right.”
House manages to hold his silence for almost thirty seconds before continuing: “Should I be worried?”
“I don’t know, honestly. If I were in Cuddy’s position, I wouldn’t be all too surprised. This is what you’ve done throughout your career, after all, and I do think that the fact that you’re willing to do whatever it takes for your patients is part of the charm for her too”, Wilson says. “This shouldn’t surprise her.”
“Doesn’t mean she won’t be pissed.”
“No, it doesn’t, but you saved your patient’s life.”
That’s always what has been most important. Wilson stares at House, waiting for eye contact hoping to see that triumph reflected in House’s eyes as well. For a moment they stare at each other, Wilson nothing but sincerity and House looking – uncertain, almost worried.
Eventually, House looks away and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”
Filled with a sudden drive to prove everyone wrong about Wilson and his relationships, he heads home bravely on time instead of stalling a couple extra hours. All hope falls down, however, as Sam is drunk when he gets home. That is one hell of a blast from the past, once again – Wilson coming home late, completely drained, and Sam waiting angry and half a wine bottle gone.
“You’re never home anymore”, she says first, “and you never even ask me if I want to come with you when you go for walks or lunch or whatever. Who the fuck is she?”
“There’s no one”, Wilson says automatically.
He just wants to sleep now. Fuck everything. He doesn’t want to deal with any of this.
There’s pushing around that Wilson hardly registers besides the one time his back hits the countertop at the wrong angle, then there’s some shattering of dishes, but eventually it’s quiet and he finally gets to curl up on the couch.
Sleep doesn’t come easily, and when it comes, it’s restless at best, but Wilson welcomes the darkness either way.
Some people ask after his diet, now that the changes are really noticeable. Wilson gives varying answers: more vegetables, more walking, stress, whatever. For someone with a burning passion to look thinner, he finds that he is supremely uncomfortable talking about it to any extent.
He can’t recall if he expected to be happy by this attention, but he isn’t. What Wilson did expect was that he’d be happy with himself at some point, but that’s not the case either, at least not yet.
Probably because he knows, deep down – really, really deep down – where this is going; that he has started something he doesn't know how to end.
Doesn’t want to end.
Whose day isn’t significantly improved by hearing that their best friend has locked themselves in quarantine and risked contracting smallpox? Wilson makes quick work of searching for House, and ends up finding him… oh, on the roof.
Not a good sign, but Wilson is profoundly unwilling to consider what this means for House’s relationships, and much more ready to tear House a new one for being a fucking idiot.
“I can't believe you”, Wilson tells him. “You ass. Can’t you stop trying to kill yourself for one day?”
“I had to do it”, House says, shrugging. “Lay off, I already got this talk.”
“This was stupid enough to warrant another one.”
Wilson wants to reach out but he doesn’t quite dare. They’ve never been that kind of friends, no matter how many near-death-events House has gone through and no matter how terrified Wilson is every single time. He settles for glowering.
“You like the stupid shit I pull. Besides, you wouldn’t have liked the CDC guy either”, House says.
“I approve of stupid shit when it’s done to save your patients”, Wilson says. “Not when you’re trying to annoy CDC personnel.”
House looks away. “Well, I was trying to save this one. Failed, though.”
“But you saved the rest”, Wilson says. “And you didn’t die yourself. Ultimately.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” House asks. “God giveth, god taketh away?”
Wilson shrugs. “I’m just saying. This wasn’t a landslide victory for god, either.”
“Quit while you’re ahead, Wilson”, House snaps. “You can’t… cheer me up, not now. You always have a homicidal look in your eyes when I talk to you after one of your patients dies, which is relatively often, by the way.”
“That’s because you tend to insult my patients – and what do you mean ahead, this is definitely not being ‘ahead’.”
“You’re not insulting anyone but yourself, here, so what’s your goal?”
Wilson looks away. House is sometimes a very difficult person to talk to, no matter how straightforward and uncaring he is, no matter that he doesn’t need the usual amount of politeness and sugarcoating. The situation is complicated, because House is grieving, whether he wants to or not (he does not), and he’s going to be extra irritable for the coming eight hours minimum.
How do you put your caring into words for someone that doesn’t want to care about you caring but does anyway? Wilson thinks to himself, and then: Well, that’s fucking convoluted.
“Look, I just – you scare the shit out of me sometimes, you know?” Wilson says.
To his surprise, House almost smiles in return. “Wanna come over and get really drunk about it?”
Which is how Wilson ends up staying the night at House’s place. They drink beer that has enough calories to make Wilson shiver and talk about Cuddy enough to make House shiver. They talk about stupid shit they used to talk about all the time, they laugh, they have fun. It’s been a while since the last time.
They do not talk about feelings. Almost.
By the time they have drunk an admirable amount of alcohol, Wilson does say: “Thanks for not dying, House”, to which House responds: “Shut up, you sap”, but that’s about it.
Wilson sleeps on House's couch and manages to fall asleep before the panic of missing his run settles in. He’s too drunk for mathematics, but he figures that this should be fine. Just this once. It’s not like he goes drinking with House as often as they used to go.
Or ever, really.
If House notes how relieved he is at the prospect of not having to head home, he doesn’t mention it.
The following night he goes home to find Sam with red eyes and packed bags.
“I’m sorry”, she says, “this has to end. I’m turning into the person I was back then, and god, I don’t want that. No one wants that.”
“Okay”, Wilson replies.
He feels as though he should protest, but can't bring himself to. All he feels is a vague pleasure that stems from the fact that this time there are no lawyers involved.
“I have most of my stuff here”, she continues. “Just throw away whatever I’m leaving behind.”
Wilson nods in response. It feels as though he’s acting on autopilot. Then again, maybe he is – it’s not like this is his first rodeo.
“I’m sorry we didn’t work out this time, either”, Sam says, though she sounds significantly less sorry than the first time she said it. “I hope – I hope she’s nice, whoever she is.”
Too tired to protest one more futile time, Wilson just steps aside and waits until Sam is out and the door is closed. It’s very quiet in the apartment after that.
Idly, he wonders if there’s something about him, an effect, anything, that’s making people revert to the worst version of themselves. Cohabitation doesn’t seem to work out with anyone; Wilson always finds a new way to fuck it up. Or an old way, as it turns out.
He’s so tired.
Afterwards, he does what he always ends up doing after a breakup: heads to House’s apartment. It feels like another defeat to walk inside and collapse on the couch, like oh so many times before. It’s almost redundant to explain it out loud.
“Sam left me.”
“What a moron.”
That’s probably not directed at Sam only, is it now.
“Do you have a drink?” Wilson asks, sidestepping that comment. “Or drinks?”
He shouldn't drink. Drinking always makes him worse, in every measurable way. He most definitely shouldn't drink here, with House, because sometimes drinking makes him completely lose the ability to lie and derail conversations, which means he'll end up telling truths he didn't even realize himself, and that would be a horribly good thing for him, probably. Wilson is so not ready for that. He's got a better method of dealing with his shit.
And yet he's sitting on House's couch, asking for a drink. There are less unhinged methods for getting help, sure.
Except:
“Cuddy's coming over.”
Oh. Holy shit?
“Does she know you're here?” Wilson asks, because he's an asshole.
House won't look at him. “I apologized to her.”
Wilson can't help it, he's baffled. “Good for you.”
Baffled, but happy, because this relationship has made House happier than anything Wilson can remember in the past years. There can be several good days in a row, now. House sometimes smiles spontaneously. Best of all, he's no longer trying to actively sabotage his happiness.
“Not really. I lied”, House says, looking strangely dejected. “Just took your advice. Too bad you didn't.”
Did Wilson actually advise him to lie? Huh, that was stupid of him, if it's true. Then again, nothing has ever worked out for Wilson when he has told the truth. Again, not that things are going great with the lying, either.
Fucking idiot, Wilson thinks, I just got dumped. No one should be taking my advice. Cuddy and House's relationship can't blow up like all of Wilson's relationships do. Absolutely no one would survive that fallout, and Wilson has trouble imagining an amicable breakup. Then again, House is a genius. He should be smart enough to not listen to Wilson all too much whenever he's being stupid.
Wilson tries to keep his trembling legs from folding under him as he heads back out the door.
“Good for you”, he says again, and thinks that the smile on his face looks somewhat genuine as he closes the door behind him.
No bender, then. Good for Wilson, probably.
He tries not to think much of anything. He goes for a run instead. He runs, he runs, he runs, until he can't stand anymore. He doesn't make it back before dawn.
Don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think.
Wilson didn't remember how good the combination of muscle ache and brain fog felt. He’s too exhausted to feel lonely.
“Are you angry at me for breaking the bro code?” is what House opens with the next day.
Wilson rolls his eyes. “This was my… god knows how manyth breakup. We both know from experience that I'm gonna bounce back in no time. It was objectively the more logical choice.”
House frowns. “You sound fine.”
“See? I'm bouncing already.”
“No, you genuinely sound alright”, House says.
“What'd you expect? That I'd be sobbing uncontrollably?” Wilson asks.
“You did after Julie.”
“First of all, I was drunk. Second of all, there was no sobbing of any kind. I shed two manly tears”, Wilson corrects primly. “Didn’t even have to blow my nose.”
Come to think of it, he doesn't remember all-out crying after any of his breakups aside from Sam, that first time. Wilson doesn't cry much. That time with Julie had mostly been because of the alcohol and exhaustion at having to go through a divorce for a third time.
“You almost seem relieved”, House says. “And you’ve been working out, eating healthy – ooh, you’ve got a girlfriend!”
“I just lost a girlfriend!”
House shakes his head, smiling knowingly. “Uh-huh. That must be why Sam asked Cuddy if she knew who the mysterious she could be.”
Maybe, just maybe, the reason for the lack of empathy from the people around him is because they all truly do think Wilson is cheating, or that he was hoping to cheat. Wilson can’t make up his mind on the question of how that thought makes him feel. He would have been pissed before, but suddenly he’s just glad that no one knows how embarrassing the real situation is. Was.
“Sam talked to Cuddy about that?”
“Yeah, I would’ve rather asked me instead”, House says. “Maybe she was afraid that I’d turn out to be your affair partner.”
He finishes the sentence with an exaggerated wink. Wilson opts to ignore him, but there is the barest hint of a smile on his face. It’s there for the wrong reasons.
Relief or not, the breakup is what finally kicks Wilson off the goddamn rails. If he were to think back on it (not something he’d ever do) he’d realize that he hadn’t exactly been on them for a while to begin with, but this definitely ends up a turning point.
He loses all qualms about skipping meals, since there's no one at home to keep up the pretense for. He doesn’t think about what he needs to eat for his vigorous routine, only that he needs the routine. It doesn’t matter how long his workouts are, there’s no curfew.
And god, is he happy. The burning anxiety in his chest, the constant weight of grief and disappointment gets relieved step by step, push-up by push-up, lift by lift. It almost feels mature, because it’s still so difficult to see the connection to self-destructiveness when it seems like he’s doing nothing more than taking care of himself.
There is one point, one moment between the sunshine and rainbows, in which he’s terrified.
It’s because he loses his footing, and for that one moment, he truly believes he won’t make it home on his own. That he’ll have to sleep in the fucking street first before his feet will have the strength to drag his sorry ass to his doorstep. He is on the verge of calling House to get him IV fluids and a car ride home, but in the end, he decides on crawling home by himself.
He has to sit on three separate benches, squat a couple times and put his head between his knees another couple of times in order not to faint, but he manages it. It takes two hours in total to get home, but he does manage it.
Afterwards, he’s completely shaky and indeed terrified and he wonders if this is the point where he should call up a specialist and get himself an appointment.
But.
Doctors make the worst patients, and the effect is amplified when they refuse to truly acknowledge being sick. Every now and then, especially now, Wilson will think okay, this is not the way a normal, healthy person acts, but it’s so fucking hard to think that he could really have a problem. He’s always prided himself on being rational and sensible; it’s an impossible task to see that he could’ve miscalculated.
So: he doesn’t call House, he doesn’t get an appointment. He’s fine, he tells himself, he just had a bad night. He won’t make the same mistake another time.
Despite the euphoria he gets from exercising, Wilson finds that he’s more weary in the evenings. There are barely any coherent thoughts in his head by the time he’s crawling into his bed, and that does bother him a tiny bit.
What bothers him a great lot is the same phenomenon extending to his work hours. Guilt is clawing at him when he has to fight to stay alert during a patient meeting. If he were to keep this up, someone is going to notice.
Wilson knows how to dance this dance, though – he adjusts. He always eats breakfast, from now on, as well as lunch halfway though his workday. He takes fruit cut into small pieces with him and eats right before appointments.
This can work. Wilson can make it work.
“Differential diagnosis for sudden personality change”, House says suddenly, as they’re watching a game in an otherwise empty exam room.
Ha, as if.
Wilson tries to hold back his smile and knows he fails miserably. “You liking Rachel does not a sudden personality change make.”
House turns to look at him, a little taken aback. “Hey. I wasn’t – okay, I was, but I don’t like her. That kid has the intelligence of a –”
“Finish that sentence and I will forever use it against you”, Wilson says quickly. “Cuddy will never let you in her bedroom again.”
House huffs and they settle back into silence. Wilson wonders whether it’s more damaging if he comments on this or not. Impossible not to, really, because he’s feeling almost giddy with relief that the kid situation is working out, at least for now.
“For what it’s worth –”
“Please don’t.”
“– I really don’t think it’s that surprising that you get along with her.”
“Are you trying to insult me?”
Wilson just smiles. Something aches in him, but he concentrates on the game instead.
Besides his lessening energy, Wilson finds that dedicating most of his time to moving and resting in order to move leaves him with very little time for socializing. It doesn't matter, he tells himself, because the burn in his muscles and the ridiculous smiles after running himself into the ground keep him up.
It's hard to see the weight loss project as a problem when this fucked up habit is the one thing keeping him afloat amidst all the shit his life includes nowadays. It's a safety net to jump into – a way to keep the thoughts at bay, a way to get that tiny flicker of genuine pleasure every day, that little triumph of having achieved something real.
It all snowballs into a huge triumph when he looks at the mirror and sees a faulty man, but a significantly less faulty one than whom he saw before. He's getting better, Wilson figures, this is all good for him.
Everyone else seems to think along the same lines, because people flirt with him more on average, and several people have asked him out within the last month. It's a little wild. He’s gotten more than his fair share of compliments and unsubtle hints lately.
House must've spread the word about Wilson's relationship status, if it wasn't one of the fellows. Everyone in the building loves gossip, and Wilson's well-aware that his life is especially interesting to many.
Only he can't find it in himself to enjoy it all. It's weird; before, damn him, Wilson loved the attention. He liked flirting, he liked looking good and others commenting on it, he thrived on it.
Now? Not quite.
He tells himself it's because of the whole ordeal with Sam still being too fresh on his mind. That has to be it.
Then there’s the whole thing with Cuddy’s terror of a mother. The dynamic is very different compared to what Wilson is used to and while it sounds like it'll be more than a little infuriating, he agrees to the dinner anyway. He understands Cuddy.
“House is there for me”, Cuddy had said. “But it would probably help if you were there too, for House. I just – I don’t want a disaster.”
Wilson can definitely understand that.
Anyway, the dinner’s going about the way it was always going to go; a wreck filled with awkward conversation and minefields that Wilson has difficulty recognizing.
In the end, House drugs Cuddy’s mother – and Wilson.
And, well… Wilson has lost his fucking mind, because he's grateful for getting drugged, because House drugging him got him out of eating the goddamn cake. He was fucking terrified of that cake, because not only was he having a horrifying time and reliving oddly vivid flashbacks of dinners with relatives as a child, but he was also practically forced into eating the same amount as everyone else in order to not offend anyone. The cake would’ve been way too much.
Besides that, the whole ordeal with Cuddy's mom is probably ultimately in Wilson's favor anyway, because it has distracted House from the fact that in these weeks that have passed, Wilson’s hypothetical but actively discussed affair-partner/future-girlfriend has not shown up. In addition, Cuddy and House are getting along even better, growing closer, and that’s what Wilson’s been hoping for.
So yeah, he thinks, walking home unsteadily, mind still a little fuzzy, totally in his favor.
House cancels bowling night.
Wilson doesn't think about it.
He doesn’t think about his life having been reduced to food, exercise, food, exercise, food and exercise. Doesn’t think about House and being uninteresting and simple and – he doesn’t, no, really.
They have a standing reservation in the bowling alley, but Wilson refuses to go alone and he can't come up with anyone to replace House that Wilson would have the energy to deal with. He heads to the gym instead, lifts weights until he sees stars everywhere.
Life is fucking difficult, but this is simple.
And then his neighbor dies. Wilson wasn’t particularly close to her, but they were friendly, and he had promised to help take care of her affairs once she was gone. Most of that task is easy to deal with, except for one thing: she leaves behind her pitiful diabetic fluffy cat.
Her name is Sara, and she's the most perfect creature Wilson’s ever laid his eyes on.
Wilson absolutely fucking loves her. There isn’t even a question of whether he’ll take her in – Sara moves in right away.
A new routine takes place: Wilson eats at the same times as Sara does, lays with her on the couch after his workouts, and life is the closest to blissful that it has been for ages – for all of two weeks.
Wilson has cracked the code to happiness. His new routine has made everything perfect.
Between Sara and his new work-adjusted eating patterns, he, for once, feels both capable and competent. He loves it, the comfort of hunger, the comfort of beating yourself over and over again, running longer, lifting more, eating less – the comfort of being in control.
Overall, he’s in a relatively good mood almost all day now, especially at work.
“Foosball?” he calls into House’s office.
Though he tends to actually go home on time now that he’s got Sara, the weeks of overworking have paid off. He’s got plenty of actual free time now. He knows that House doesn’t, but the time that House spends being a nuisance with Wilson is time spent away from bothering Cuddy and harassing his fellows, so foosball should be a, uh, net win.
House agrees, abandoning whatever form he was making faces at. He still seems thoughtful, however, and Wilson would bet money that it has nothing to do with the form he was supposed to fill.
To both of their surprise, Wilson scores the first point. He lifts one eyebrow, with a wry smile.
“I wasn’t ready”, House mutters.
Wilson snorts, about to ask what gives, but House is ahead of him.
“You're acting suspiciously normal”, House declares.
“You –” Wilson says, “– are just salty because I am beating the shit out of you at this.”
House makes a face. “No, you're not.”
Yes, he is, but Wilson is nothing but a graceful winner.
“You've got someone else”, House continues. “You're actually no longer moping. You look happy.”
See? See? Wilson is helping himself with this, and it's not just his body that is improving; his mind is healing, too. This has helped him more than talking to anyone ever has, than alcohol ever has, than his antidepressants ever have. It takes all power to not sunnily smile in response, because that would be too suspicious.
If House found out, he'd – be an ass about it. He'd mock Wilson. So no.
“There's no one”, Wilson says and rolls his eyes.
Clang.
“Another one”, he adds, gleefully, as he retrieves the ball from House's goal.
When he looks up, House's eyes are narrowed. He's got his analyzing mode on. Won't be long until he finds out about Sara – Wilson just hopes that House won’t scare her, the poor thing. It’s a shame she can’t understand him, or else the amount that Wilson has colorfully cursed House out at home would’ve warned her for the lunatic about to come after her.
“I’m going to find out anyway”, House says. “Why not just tell me now, spare us some time?”
“Spare you some time, you mean”, Wilson says. “Oh, I would never do that. Am I not allowed to have entertainment?”
“You find this entertaining?”
“In the same way watching security footage of someone crashing a car – my car – would be entertaining, but sure.”
House rolls his eyes and finally scores his first point.
There’s a fucking mouse in his house.
That rhymes, and it would be funny, if there wasn't a fucking mouse in his house.
“It’s for the cat”, House says nonchalantly, and Wilson almost jumps out of his skin. "I've got more."
He looks up to see House leaning against his counter and Sara sitting on it, cleaning herself. She stops to stare. It’s an amusing sight, the two of them just staring at him in tandem. It would be even more amusing if there weren’t mice in his fucking house.
“What the fuck, House?” Wilson asks, and then, more pressingly: “Did you poison the mice?”
“I wouldn’t –” House begins, but Wilson obliterates the rest of the sentence by lifting his weapon of choice (a frying pan) into the air. “No, they’re not. I’m just testing your diabetic kitty, trying to see if it's useful at anything.”
“Don’t be mean to Sara”, Wilson says. “She’s staying. Get used to her.”
House narrows his eyes. Wilson lifts his jaw.
“I’m keeping her”, he says, pointedly.
There’s a long silence. Sara stretches herself on the kitchen counter – on which she is absolutely not supposed to be, but. She does what she wants to.
“She’s a bad influence. You’re already buying drugs for her”, House points out, patting the bag of catnip.
Wilson rolls his eyes. “She needs a home. You understand the chances of her making it in a shelter as well as I do. She doesn’t deserve that.”
“It’s a cat, Wilson.”
“She’s got better manners than you have. Cleans up after herself, doesn’t make noise…”
“At least you’re still trying to get back to college-size you”, House says, with a frown. “Working on yourself means you haven’t completely given up on ever finding anyone. Yet.”
Working on yourself rattles around Wilson's brain. That's the first comment House has made, so far, it's a little surprising. But... yeah, that's what he's doing, right? That's what he was always doing. That hasn't changed, has it?
Wilson smiles. “Have you ever considered the fact that I might also simply enjoy sports? Without any women-related ulterior motives?”
“Are you arguing in favor of an intervention?” House asks. “It kind of sounds like you are.”
“No”, Wilson says and frowns. “No, absolutely not, no. Was I?”
He comes to stand next to Sara. The cat meows happily and pushes herself against his hand as he scratches her. House looks a little disgusted, but Wilson already knows he’s won this argument. House is House, but it’s also true that the time they’ve spent together lately has been dramatically less than before. Partly because of the new relationship, partly because of Cuddy’s mother, but the end result is the same.
Sara will get to stay, to keep Wilson company.
After a long, almost grating silence, House finally looks away, mouth set into a displeased line.
“I’m sorry”, he says, finally. “About Sam.”
“Yeah”, Wilson says. “I– yeah.”
Suddenly, Sara tenses herself, and then makes a huge leap. She catches the goddamn mouse. Wilson adores her. Even House looks a little impressed.
Things are going to be fine. He's fine.