A/N: Post Wilson's heart. Reply to a daily prompt at comment_fic on LJ. Written for Dreamofspike.
In Mortal Danger
He cried the first time. A choked half-scream – his reaction to the blood. And he was a doctor, he should've been used to it. The next night, he was taken back there, to the same room with the same body twisted awkwardly on the floor, unmoving. This time, he didn't scream or cry, but pawed madly at his psyche to let him out. Night number three. Tonight. He's sitting by his friend's contorted frame, a hand combing through thin clumps of blood-matted hair. He stays in the same position until the morning light frees him from the nightmare.
He has a feeling it will happen today – whatever it is. It baffles him why he's suddenly started paying attention to his dreams, but they all seemed so vivid and real like a sign or warning. It's irrational, he knows, but he simply can't risk it.
For years they've always been House and Wilson, one simply can't exist without the other. Wilson has already tried exercising his right to walk away, but he soon realised how grey everything became when House wasn't around. House simply can't let anything go. Had Wilson not come back to PPTH voluntarily, House would have found a way to drag him back somehow, though he'd have needed a new idea – faking cancer was tried, tested and labelled a big, fat fail.
At 7.45am, both men shuffle into the car – an anxious driver and an oblivious, grumbling passenger.
House spends the entire day trying to shake Wilson, but wherever he goes, Wilson seems to be treading on his toes.
"James Wilson, Serial Divorcer, Boy Wonder Oncologist and stalker. If you get any closer you'll be in my lap," House all but yells across the park, watching Wilson fumble uncomfortably with his jacket lapels before sighing in defeat and walking over to join his friend on the park bench.
Planting a false innocent expression on his face, Wilson says casually, "I didn't know you'd be here."
"You've been following me, which leads me to believe that either you're suspicious of something, or you've suddenly developed an unhealthy attachment to me," House says, raising his eyebrow suggestively.
"Maybe I just wanted a walk."
"Or maybe you just wanted to see where I wanted to walk."
"Or maybe I'm just screwing with you." Wilson wears his best smirk, hoping it looks authentic or he'll face another grilling.
Rolling his eyes, House picks up his cane and begins the walk back to the hospital, Wilson at his side. Crossing the parking lot, House's cane scrapes loudly on the newly gritted ground. The light dusting of snow atop the cars makes everything look pristine.
In a split second, House's cane slides out from under him after hitting a patch of ice. For Wilson, everything seems to slow. He watches as House's body begins buckling to the right. He throws himself towards his friend, making a desperate grab for his arm. One hand grips a clump of material while an arm manages to curl around House's chest just in time to stop him falling completely and colliding head-first with the pavement. In the struggle to keep House upright, Wilson loses his footing and they both end up lying next to each other on the ground.
Panting, Wilson turns his head to House. "Aren't you glad I was here?"
"That wouldn't have happened if you hadn't felt the need to follow me around all day like a lost puppy. This takes screwing with me to a whole new level."
Back at House's apartment, Wilson's sitting on the couch watching his friend flick idly through TV channels. Suddenly, House throws the remote onto the coffee table and stands.
"Where are you going?" Wilson questions.
"You and I are going to a bar."
"No, we're not."
"Okay, let me rephrase that. I am going to a bar. You can do what you want."
Wilson frantically searches his mind for some way to keep House in the apartment. "But I was about to make pancakes." House looks interested. Good move, Wilson concludes.
House furrows his brow. "Macadamia nut pancakes?"
Wilson nods, smiling.
House returns to the couch as Wilson ventures into the kitchen to start cooking.
"But we're going drinking afterwards."
Wilson's face drops. He's not gonna let this drop. He decides to keep quiet. Wilson knows that he can't let House leave the apartment for fear he might not come back. After pouring the mixture into the pan, Wilson then begins to dig through each of House's kitchen cupboards. Finding nothing, he casually wanders into the bathroom and searches through the medicine cabinet, pulling out a number of boxes of pills. For once, Wilson's glad of House's personal drug taster sessions.
Minutes later, House is tucking into his pancakes. Wilson watches intently as House shovels a fork full of – what Wilson can only describe as – peace of mind into his mouth, blissfully unaware of the crushed up pills lacing his food.
Wilson clears House's plate after he's finished; hoping that he'll stay settled down on the couch and forget about going out. House feels tired, like his eyelids are being pulled downwards.
Wilson's scrubbing the pots when it happens.
"I'm going to bed, lock the door on your way out," House shouts, though to him, his voice sounds distant and slurred.
He tries to push himself off the couch. He's almost on his feet when his arms fold awkwardly under his weight sending him tumbling forward with a crash.
Wilson jumps at the noise. Shaking the water from his hands, he scrambles quickly into the front room. For a moment, he just stands there, briefly entertaining the notion that he's fallen asleep. The next minute he's at House's side. He grabs the phone, dialling 911, but he can't bring himself to speak. Instead, his eyes focus on the fleck of blood painting the corner of the coffee table.
"I-I need an ambulance." That's all he says before putting the phone down. His voice isn't frantic, far from it; he's seen it too many times in his dreams to be surprised. The only problem; he always woke up before House did.