Summary: Wilson is upset and House tries to comfort him.
Pairing: House/Wilson friendship. Slash if you tilt your head back and slightly to the left.
It had been 15 minutes and Wilson was still crying. Sobbing, actually. House winced. There was no end in sight. Not able to keep his distance any longer, he limped over to his friend and sat down next to him on the couch. "End of wife number three?" he cautiously asked.
"Probably." He sniffed, fresh tears streaming down his still-damp cheeks.
"Work? Patient? Do you want to talk about it?" House was at a complete loss of what else to do.
"No, 'cause you could care less."
"Of course I care--"
"No. You just want me to stop," he paused to wipe angrily at an eye with the back of his hand, "stop crying all over everything." A fresh wave of grief struck him like a ton of bricks and he winced, gasped, and buried his head on House's shoulder.
House winced as well, feeling a damp patch where Wilson sobbed and a warm breath as he exhaled.
"Not more than two blocks from my home." Wilson had stopped sobbing, but the tears still came, continuing to soak House's flimsy shirt to the skin. "He had a…picture, of me, in his pocket," his voice was muffled by damp cloth. " M-my address on…on the back." Wilson stopped talking, lacking the strength to continue.
House was stunned. He wrapped an arm around Wilson's shoulders and rubbed tiny circles on his back. "This won't bring him back, Jimmy," he said softly. He did want him to stop crying, to go back to the Wilson that he knew how to deal with. This was entirely new.
Wilson responded with a loud sniff.
House leaned his head away from the sound. "Come on. Lay down and get some rest." He was planning on escaping the couch, but Wilson's head seemed to melt from shoulder to leg.
The oncologist looked up at House with tired puffy eyes. His mouth was open, allowing him to breathe where his stuffed nose would not.
House reached down and smoothed the damp hair off of Wilson's forehead. He remembered how comforting it had been when he would come home from school after a trying day and his mother would sit next to him, a gentle hand in his hair.
Wilson's head hurt. He couldn't tell if it was from all the crying or from banging his head against the wall a numerous amount of times. He closed his eyes. And all he could see were pictures of his brother, the ones he had stared at many times while wondering where the man had gotten to. Ones he had memorized. Would he ever be able to look at them again? It was too much and he opened his eyes, blinking back tears and looking up at his friend.
House was surprised at the emotion radiating out of those chocolate eyes. Wilson was looking at him with such helplessness, like he was upset that his pleas for his own demise were going unanswered. Not even his worst patients looked as lost. "Call in sick tomorrow," he suggested.
"Can't." Sniff. "One of my patients…starting chemo." He rubbed a hand over his face and found House's hand still in his hair. He clung onto it. "He was trying to get to my place." He spoke without emotion, his well of tears had finally dried up, body limp and exhausted. He let go of House's hand with a final squeeze.
He resumed stroking Wilson's hair. It wasn't until after a few minutes of silence had passed that he realized that Wilson had fallen asleep. Shit! Resigned to his fate as Wilson's pillow for the time being, he sighed, then watched the man sleep. When Wilson woke up, he was determined to finally get the chance to pay back the favor and give Wilson a reason to keep going.