Chapter Text
House hadn't called.
Wilson stared at his phone in mild disbelief as he switched off airplane mode to find his voicemail and messenger empty. He'd turned his phone off and back on again, thinking it was some problem with how infrequently he restarted the thing, but it changed nothing and Wilson was left scratching his head, confused. It was strange— he hadn't thought much of it until yesterday, but it had been total radio silence for the last week of the oncology conference he'd been sent to by Cuddy. No calls, no texts— he hadn't even gotten anything from his fellows or Lisa, who tended to report everything House did to him when he was away as if Wilson would punish him for his antics. House often called them tattletales when Wilson would relay those texts, and Wilson would have a good laugh when he very maturely stuck his tongue out.
But there had been nothing. Not for an entire week, which was absolutely unheard of. Either his phone was broken or House hadn't done anything worth tattling over. Which was as unlikely as it was concerning. House was only good when he was planning something big or if something was going on. And, more than that, House rarely went a day without calling Wilson when he was working in the the office beside him, let alone a plane ride away at a three-week-long oncology conference. And for the first two weeks, House had done exactly what Wilson had been expecting: call every day, multiple times a day, and text incessantly with a practically obscene amount of emoticons. It was what Wilson was used to. He'd come to accept and even appreciate it, honestly. It made him feel wanted, made him feel needed. And House would tease him for that, for his 'neediness vampire' tendencies, but it didn't change the fact that House knew just as well as Wilson that they were a balanced pair. House needed and Wilson needed to be needed.
And now his inbox and voicemail were horribly, terrifyingly empty, and Wilson was rushing to grab his bags, to hail a cab and head back to their condo to make sure that House wasn't dead. Because, if he was being honest, House was more likely to die than to give Wilson an entire week's break.
His knee bounced as the cab went the speed limit; he resisted the urge to tell the driver to go faster because not only would that be bad form, he would be no help to anyone, House included, if he was dead, too. He'd called House to no avail, which only made things worse. So he drummed his fingers on his bag and bounced his knee with anxious fervor as the cab made its way through New Jersey traffic and eventually stopped off at the condominium. Wilson was out of the door before the car had even stopped, paying the tab through the front window before tearing his suitcase from the trunk. He didn't bother to see if the cabbie had left before bursting into the building and beelining for the elevators.
He burst into the condo and left his suitcase by the door, looking back and forth as he stepped into the living room. It was concerning in the same way the empty voicemail was— the piano seemed untouched, the coffee table was devoid of the expected detritus of three weeks' worth of takeout. Despite House definitely knowing that Wilson was returning that night — unless he hadn't been paying attention, which was, of course, always a possibility — the couch was unoccupied and the TV was off. Wilson was sure that, if House were alright, he would be waiting up for Wilson to return. Wilson frowned and turned away from the living room, stalking to the bedroom and opening the door. Wilson felt in equal parts relief and startling worry when he saw a lump on the far side of the bed. He opened the door a little further, letting the light in the hallway illuminate House's form. He sighed when he saw the rise and fall of House's shoulder; proof of life.
Suddenly, he felt very silly. Of course, House was perfectly fine. If House had died sometime last week, his phone would have been blowing up and he would have been flying back early. Cuddy kept a keen eye on House's health, especially when Wilson was away. For so long, they'd been tensed in anticipation of that phone call— House had OD'd, House had crashed his bike, House had done something to himself that couldn't be undone. It was a hard habit to break, expectation. Even now, months after Mayfield and the detox, Wilson often felt like they were still holding their breath, waiting for a tragedy, waiting for the second shoe to drop. But House was lying in bed, fast asleep, curled up on his side.
Wilson took a deep breath, calming his racing heart. Everything was fine. There was nothing going on. He'd ask House about the uncharacteristic lack of contact in the morning; right then, he found himself sagging with the weight of his exhaustion. The plane ride had been bumpy and loud; he'd gotten none of the sleep he'd planned on getting and was now feeling the consequences. He grabbed his suitcase from the front hall and pulled it into the bedroom as quietly as he could. He slipped back out and into House's old room, using the shower so he didn't wake House with the noise. Then he came back into their shared bedroom with just as much care to the amount of noise he was making, somewhat surprised that House hadn't woken already. He'd always been a light sleeper.
Still, he slid into bed and shifted until he could pull House into his arms, chest to back. He hadn't bothered with styling his hair— it was still damp as he nuzzled into the nape of House's neck, breathing in the smell with which he'd become so familiar in these past months. It had taken him a while to really accept that he was allowed to do this now, to hold House and enjoy the way he smelled, the way he looked when he slept, his voice in the mornings with that husky baritone that sent shivers down Wilson's spine. But now that he had accepted it, he took advantage of these allowances. House smelled like the sea: salt and windswept carelessness, all accented by that persistent, unshakeable hint of antiseptic that all hospital workers carried. Wilson never minded it. When he closed his eyes, he was reminded of the years his family would take him to Florida in the summer to see his Bubbe and Zeyde. He was reminded of that trip he'd taken with House to Fort Lauderdale a year ago now, when he'd held House as they watched the sunset; when House had come up behind him as he stood outside of their AirBnB at dawn, wrapped his arms around Wilson's middle, and rested his chin on Wilson's shoulder as the sun rose.
He fell asleep like that, holding House as close as he could, as tight as he dared.
In the morning, House was gone.
Wilson pushed himself up and slapped the alarm, immediately roused by House's absence. He hadn't felt him get out of bed. Of course, he could have been sleeping so deeply that he didn't register the movement— the conference and the travelling had drained him of all his energy and he'd been running on fear and fumes when he got back to the apartment. He frowned. House must have gotten up for a case or something, but if that were the case he likely would have woken Wilson. He always did, anyway, just to be annoying. It was improbable that he'd wanted to let Wilson sleep— he wouldn't suddenly grow a nice streak now.
There was no note by the nightstand or, when Wilson left the bedroom, any indication that House had even been there at all. One could assume that Wilson lived alone, with how deserted the the place was. He scratched the back of his head. This was all very strange. Hell must have frozen over— House got up before him, left the condo before him, and was likely at work before him. Which was unheard of, unless House had a case. And even then, it was more likely for him to get up and leave in the middle of the night than it was early morning. That being said, patients didn't typically wait until their doctors got their beauty sleep before deciding to code.
Wilson sighed. He'd know nothing without interrogating House, who either had a case or had apparently learned basic workday etiquette in the week of no contact with Wilson. Either way, a conversation was in order and that couldn't happen unless Wilson went into work. He turned back into the bedroom and got dressed, trying to tame his hair and cursing himself for not putting time into drying and styling it correctly before giving up and rushing out to his car. There was nothing to be done about it now, and he would not be the late one between the two of them— it was a matter of principle.
Walking into the hospital, he greeted the nurse at the intake kiosk and headed for the elevators before thinking better of it and turning into the clinic. Nurse Previn gave him a smile which he returned as he stepped into Cuddy's office, knocking gently on her door.
"Knock-knock," he greeted. She gave him a smile and ended the conversation she was having on her desk phone before hanging it up and standing.
"Welcome back," she said, giving him a brief hug. "How was the conference?"
"Boring, but somewhat promising. There's some new stem-cell stuff I'm interested in looking into..."
"Wonderful," she replied, returning to her seat. "And the break?"
"It was nice," he replied with a small, indulgent smile. She'd sent him to this conference not only because it was a great opportunity to network and learn about the new developments in cancer treatment, but also because Wilson needed a break from everything from time to time. Once a year, she would sent Wilson onto one of these conferences and wouldn't take no for an answer; she'd take the blame and Wilson would act tremendously put-out so as to appease House, but in reality he was happy to go, most of the time. It was time to himself— something he had precious little of, especially now that he was dating and living with House.
"I didn't hear from you, though," he continued, sitting down at one of the chairs in front of her desk. "No texts, no calls."
"No? I hadn't noticed."
"Not once all week," he confirmed. "House didn't call, either. Did something happen?"
She tilted her head to the side in thought. Wilson was sure that it had been an orchestrated effort, but it seemed like she was truly clueless. She shrugged.
"No. He hasn't done anything too crazy this past week, if that's what you're asking. In fact, he hasn't really done much of anything. He's gotten his paperwork done and did his clinic hours, but he hasn't picked up a new patient since his last."
Wilson frowned. "He's been doing paperwork and his clinic hours?"
"Yeah. I was surprised, too, but I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth."
He nodded slowly, agreeing with her logic but feeling slightly put off. That sort of compliance, while understandably relieving for his boss, was so unlike House that it was concerning. While hearing about anyone else doing the menial tasks of their profession would be dismissable, House doing those things was extremely out of character. Wilson wanted to take it as a good sign— maybe House was doing well. He was getting up early, cleaning up after himself, doing his work. All of these were good things. But something about it — the scarcity of such behavior or maybe the abruptness of its onset — had Wilson feeling very uneasy as he left Cuddy's office and headed for his own.
He decided to visit House in his office to clear things up. He would have done so anyway, but this time he hopped over the balcony between his and House's office with a decided purpose, his jaw set and his brows furrowed. He was concerned, a little miffed, and had a pit in his gut about the size of a grape but as heavy as a stone. He didn't want to definitively say that there was something wrong. Not yet, anyway. Everything had an explanation. Wilson just needed to wheedle it out of House.
House sat at his desk, hunched over his paperwork and signing each page diligently before moving onto the next. It was a position with which Wilson was intimately familiar— when House was researching for a case or because there was some new and interesting medical development, he would sit wherever he could and scribble down notes to be cleaned and structured later. Wilson smiled a little at the sight of it and closed the door behind him gently so as not to break House's flow for another moment. Wilson waited until a few more pages had been signed before stepping forward and putting his hand on his partner's shoulder.
"House—"
He was cut off when House flinched away, nearly falling out of his chair with the force of it. As he spun around to face Wilson, his eyes were wider than Wilson had ever seen them. He could see the whites around the blues, staring up with an intense emotion that Wilson couldn't exactly describe. Fear, maybe, but it was more than that. Deeper than that. In an instant, it was forced away and House suppressed whatever expression had fought its way onto his face, but the damage was already done— Wilson had seen it.
"What the hell?" Wilson demanded, taking a step back. House pressed his lips together and looked away, his shoulders raised with tension. "House, what the fuck was that?"
"You crept up on me," House spat. "Am I not allowed to be surprised?"
"Sure, but that wasn't surprise," Wilson replied. House scoffed.
"Whatever. I was working and didn't notice you. Forget it."
"I don't want to forget it, House, I—"
"How was the conference?" House interrupted, turning back around to the paperwork. Wilson didn't miss how his hand shook as he picked up his pen again, nor did he miss how the tension had still not bled from House's body. Wilson pursed his lips, silent for a moment as he decided whether to continue to pursue an answer. Then, he sighed and circled to the chairs on the other side of House's desk, sitting down and eyeing him carefully. He looked completely drained; there were deep, stark half-moons under his eyes and his skin was pale. It looked like he'd lost a little bit of weight, which wasn't too surprising but concerning all the same. Worst was the restraint Wilson could see buzzing under the surface, as if ready to burst from House at any given moment. He decided that pushing House's buttons would do nothing but hurt them both, at this point.
"Boring," he replied, just as he'd said to Cuddy. Then, he softened. "I missed you. You didn't call."
"I called," House argued. Wilson leveled him with an unimpressed glare.
"Not for a week. You've never gone that long without calling."
"Sure, I have."
"You called me six times the Wednesday before last," Wilson pointed out. "And you sent a hundred and four text messages."
"And?"
"And that was the driest day that week." Wilson leaned back in the chair. "You also left me alone this morning. I would have thought you'd jump at the possibility for a morning quickie, since you got up earlier than I did, for once. You've never given me the silent treatment, even when we fight. What gives?"
House rolled his eyes. "I just didn't call, and I wasn't in the mood. Don't armchair therapize. It's not that deep."
Wilson opened his mouth to protest, but upon seeing House's aborted expression — a beseeching one, one that would have asked Wilson to please, please lay off if he'd allowed it to pass across his face —he closed it once more. He wouldn't keep pushing, if that was really what House wanted, and it looked like it was. It was concerning. House was unforthcoming by nature, but something about all this made that grape-sized pit in his stomach double in mass. Something was going on. Something was going on and Wilson was going to have to investigate.
"Fine," Wilson said, putting his hands up in innocence. "Alright. I'll stop. How was your last case? I remember you had one before you left me high and dry. Cuddy said it got resolved and you haven't taken a new one."
House's expression soured nearly imperceptibly. "Fine," House spat, like the word burnt him. Wilson waited for a moment for House to continue, but he didn't. He simply averted his gaze and leaned back in his own chair, crossing his arms over his chest and closing himself off. Wilson bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from pushing the issue.
"...Alright," Wilson said. "You're not in the mood to talk. I get it. I'll see you at lunch, then."
He stood and turned to leave, making it nearly to the door with three quick strides.
"Wilson?"
He stopped when House's voice cut sharply through his intention to leave. He turned, seeing the flash of primal, aching fear that had crossed House's expression abruptly fade. It left House leaning back again and looking away, cheeks darkening with embarrassment or shame or whatever else.
"What?" Wilson asked, his voice slightly gentler than it had been before. "What's going on?"
"...Nothing," House said, after a beat of silence. "I'll see you at lunch."
And with that, he hunched back over his paperwork, resuming the methodical process of signing each one and placing them to the side. Wilson watched him work for a few moments more, consternation creeping into his own expression. His hand was on the door, but he was suddenly very reluctant to leave. Nevertheless, he respected House's wishes— if House didn't want to talk about something, he wasn't going to talk. Wilson would get nothing more out of him this morning. But that didn't stop him from worrying as he walked back to his office, nor did it change the fact that something was definitely going on. Wilson just had to find out what.