Chapter Text
Love.
That's what he had called him two weeks ago, the last time that Gregory House had seen James Wilson before his vacation.
Now, House had planned to take the same plane as Wilson. He wouldn't book a room for himself, but upgrade Wilson's standard room to whichever one was fanciest. Say he's the oncologists husband, and demand a room key.
But Wilson had called him 'Love', and now he couldn't stand being near him.
Why did he have to be this way! Not House, of course, but Wilson. He himself was fine, it was his friend who always ruined it. Cause that's what they were.
Friends.
Nothing more, nothing less. Just two friends. Not best friends, not acquaintances. Until Wilson had mindlessly called him a term he would call his mistresses and now ex wives while leaving work.
It couldn't have been an accident, House had ruled that out immediately. The way he looked at him, eyes softening when he said it but tearing up when he wasn't met with any sort of response.
Wilson felt hurt, so he knew what he said and he meant it too.
Honestly, how could he betray House like this? What they had was good, it was really good. To change it?
God, why did Wilson have to be such a dick!
—
"House? House!"
An annoying Australian accent boomed through the room, snapping House out of his trance-like state. He'd been zoning out, thinking about. . . stuff. He had been for the past two weeks basically at any given moment that he was alone, including when driving. He'd almost crashed into a streetlight, swerving and just barely missing the metal pole.
Chase was tapping his foot, waiting for his boss to respond. He knew that House had heard him, and that House knew he knew that. So there was no use for the blue eyed man to keep his head on the desk, eyes closed.
"What now? No, don't tell me. My guess is. . . You slept with that hot new nurse and you need to brag about it.” House got up while he spoke, making what was supposed to be a joke.
But Chase looked shocked.
“How did you. . . You haven't even seen her yet.” The blonde muttered.
“And you think that, why?” House raised an eyebrow.
“When I told her you're my boss she didn't look horrified. Assumed you haven't harassed her yet.” Chase shrugged, chucking a clipboard at House. He caught it with one hand, the other reaching for his cane.
House couldn't say it out loud, or even in his own brain, but God was he proud of that stupid Australian kid. Getting girls, making theories, like a miniature version of House himself. “So, what's the diagnosis?”
—
When Wilson called the first time, he didn't pick up.
When he called a second and third time, he declined the call.
But the fourth time? House picked up.
“Where are you?”
Wilson sounded drunk. Or upset. It was possible that it was both.
“At work, where I should be.”
House paced around his living room trying to figure out why exactly Wilson could be in such a state, and more importantly, why on Gods green earth he would pick up the phone after only four calls.
“So you. . . Didn't follow me on my vacation? And you haven't bothered me at all for two whole weeks? Did you get arrested again or something.”
He didn't ask if he was okay, no, instead Wilson had assumed he’d been arrested. Wilson, who took it upon himself to always make sure his friend wouldn't jump from a roof again, didn't ask if he was okay!
Something had to be wrong.
“Sure. Gotta go, there's a hot chick on my couch and she’s paid by the hour.”
“Hou-”
He hung up. There was no time to waste. Wilson had only a few more days at the hotel booked, and all of a sudden House felt like spending those exact same days at the exact same location.