House MD Oneshots + Imagines

Bittersweet (Gregory House x James Wilson)

Steady, nimble fingers push back locks of oily brown hair as Gregory House and James Wilson sit together on the bathroom floor of a shitty hotel. The brunette is throwing up the remnants of their last meal- the hotel's shitty room service spaghetti and meatballs- which proves to be a disgusting combination when it comes back up with two glasses of red wine and a couple bites of chocolate raspberry cheesecake.

House chooses not to make jokes for once in favor of holding his best friend's hair back, gently rubbing the area right between his best friend's shoulder blades in an attempt to make it better, even if he knows he'll never be able to make it better.

They're on month three of the presumed five they were given to live, somewhere in the middle of nowhere- northern Nevada, Greg remembers. James is steadily getting worse; restless, sweaty nights with nightmares of life and hallucinations of death turn into days where he can't keep food down or walk straight for more than a few yards without help. The former oncologist is acting like he isn't tired, but it's written on his face- once tight, young, sunkissed skin turned loose, aged, and sickly grey. He's lost an ungodly amount of weight and energy. Greg tries to ignore it.

When James finishes emptying his stomach's contents, the first thing he does is wipe his mouth on the back of his hand. The second thing he does is rest his back against the bathroom wall behind him and stare up at the ceiling. Meanwhile, Greg checks the vomit in the toilet; it's typical, no coffee-ground-like brown blood to signal ulcers or internal bleeding. Greg lets out a sigh of relief and flushes the toilet, stands on shaky legs, and offers his hands. James takes them, barely stands without falling back onto the ground, then groans before pushing Greg away. The former diagnostician doesn't take any offense to it- James tries his best to maintain his independence, even with his condition, and tends to get frustrated when he receives more help from Greg than he thinks he needs.

Greg knows that when James dies, he will, too, so most of his days are spent making the most of the time they have left while also thinking about everything he could've done different. He thinks about his failures- his parents, Stacy, Kutner, Amber, and now, Wilson- and about his successes- Lisa, Rachel, Dominika, Wilson- and it tears him apart from the inside out. But this isn't about him, it's about James, so he keeps both his content and his anguish bottled up inside.

With a somber gaze, he watches the younger man, who's standing at the sink and brushing his teeth. The scent of hot, acidic spaghetti mixed with chocolate raspberry cheesecake and cheap wine plagues the bathroom, and it takes everything in House not to gag at it.

"You shouldn't brush your teeth right after throwing up like that," House scolds. "It just scrapes off the enamel."

All he receives in return is a pointed glare-

"I'm dying , you think I give a shit about my teeth? Jackass. Not like I'm gonna live long enough to see them decay. Or are you afraid they'll be too yellow for the funeral I'm not going to have?"

-that glare and those sardonic words are accompanied by a bittersweet smile, which House quickly returns.

"I don't know, you've always been very particular about your appearance. Thought you might care about them being yellow and worn down when you eventually die of liver failure or something."

"Yeah, right."

Wilson finishes brushing his teeth and drags his feet out of the bathroom with House following, cane in hand. The younger man tumbles onto the queen-sized mattress, which smells like cheap laundry soap.

House sits next to Wilson and pulls the younger man's head to rest on his lap, even if it makes his right thigh scream in agony. He reaches down, strokes the thin and wispy chestnut locks on Wilson's head, and hums.