House MD Fanfiction

Rain

Hilson, nice, 1,814 words
By: bananacosmicgirl

House can’t find Wilson anywhere.

He could ignore it and go home on his own, but there’s an image burnt into his mind and it just won’t leave him alone. Every time House closes his eyes, it’s back, multi-colored and moving but without sound, so really, more like a silent movie than an image.

He sees Wilson’s face crumble when House yells at him to get out, that it’s over, that they’re finished. He doesn’t want Wilson anymore.

He can’t even remember what they were fighting about. Vicodin, probably. Wilson pushes hard, and it hasn’t lessened since they got together, more together, than they were before. Wilson hates being the enabler, but he can’t not do it, because then House will do incredibly stupid stuff like steal Oxycodone and overdose on it with alcohol. House knows it’s destroying Wilson, that he’s the one who’s slowly killing his best friend, his lover, his— House doesn’t know what they are to each other, what they should call one another.

Either way, House can’t find him.

He’s looked in all the usual spots – Wilson’s office, the oncology doctors’ lounge, the cafeteria, Cuddy’s office, and half a dozen other places where Wilson isn’t hiding.

He wouldn’t call it worrying, what he’s doing. House doesn’t worry; it’s not the kind of person he is. He decides to call the nagging at the back of his mind ‘curiosity’ instead, which he knows is a lie, but then everybody lies, right? He does too – he’s lied to Wilson, and Stacy, and of course the ducklings, usually about little things, but once he lied and said he had a brain tumor, and apparently that was bad. This time, the lie is only to himself – no one else even needs to know that he’s looking for Wilson.

Except perhaps for Cuddy, who seems to have a way of sniffing him out whenever he’s done something bad, lately especially where Wilson is concerned.

“Where’s Wilson?” she asks.

“Don’t know, but if you close your eyes and count to one hundred, you can go look for him.”

She looks at him unimpressed, and he deliberately looks down her cleavage instead of meeting her tired gaze. “House—”

“Wow, that’s a nice shirt,” House says.

“House! Where’s Wilson?”

“Probably off crying somewhere—” House mutters, and regrets it immediately.

“What did you do?” Cuddy asks, in that way where she presses each word out between gritted teeth.

“Nothing you need to know about,” House snaps. “I’m going to find him.”

Cuddy places her hands on her hips in an attempt to look menacing. She hardly ever manages, because she rarely has something that House is afraid to lose, and today is one of those days when she fails.

“See that you do,” she says icily.

She storms off, never uttering a threat of what will happen if House doesn’t patch things up with Wilson. House can hear the words anyway – If he resigns because of you, I’ll fire you, or something along those lines.

He puts her out of his mind; she’s not the reason he wants to find Wilson anyway. He ponders instead why Wilson fled the scene after House’s words – usually, he stays and shouts at House, until they are drawn together like magnets, meshing in a flurry of kisses and touching, with great make-up sex afterwards. It has happened on more occasions than House has fingers, and Wilson has never turned and run away before.