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The first thing Wilson notices is the piano.
Not the sound of it, House isn’t playing. That would imply effort, intention. No, it’s the fact that it’s open. Lid up. Keys exposed. Like something interrupted.
Wilson stands in the doorway of the apartment, coat still on, overnight bag hanging uselessly from his shoulder.
“Breaking and entering now?” he asks lightly.
From the couch, House doesn’t look up. “It’s only illegal if I get caught. Or if you press charges. Which you won’t, because you’re emotionally compromised.”
Wilson exhales a quiet laugh despite himself. God, he missed this. Missed him.
“That’s a bold assumption.”
House finally glances over, eyes sharp, scanning. Taking inventory. Same as always.
“You came back.”
It’s not a question.
Wilson steps inside, closing the door behind him. “My conference ended early.”
“Liar.”
“Okay,” Wilson admits, dropping the bag by the chair. “I left early.”
House nods once, like that tracks. Like it confirms something he already knew.
Silence stretches.
There’s a glass on the table amber liquid, half gone. The TV is on mute, some medical documentary flickering uselessly in the background. The apartment looks… lived in, but wrong. Like House has been existing instead of living.
"𝘈 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘧𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘢𝘺
𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥
𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘮𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘑𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘯"
Wilson moves closer. “You could’ve called.”
House snorts. “And say what? ‘Hey Wilson, I’m still exactly the same disaster you left behind. Flight’s on time, pain’s worse, nothing’s changed’?”
Wilson’s voice softens. “I didn’t leave you behind.”
House’s jaw tightens. “You always say that.”
Because it’s always true, Wilson wants to say. Because no matter how many times he walks away, he always ends up right back here same apartment, same man, same gravitational pull he’s never been able to escape.
Instead, he says, “You didn’t answer my texts.”
“I was busy.”
“Doing what? Perfecting your charming personality?”
“Exactly.”
Wilson shakes his head, but he’s smiling now—small, tired, real.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” House says, leaning back, watching him carefully, “here you are. Again.”
That lands heavier than it should.
Wilson crosses the room, stopping just short of the couch. Close enough to see the faint lines of exhaustion on House’s face. The way he’s holding his leg just a little too stiffly. The things House never admits out loud.
“You didn’t take your meds properly, did you?”
House rolls his eyes. “I took some of them.”
“That’s not—”
“I wasn’t in the mood to follow rules,” House cuts in. Then, quieter, almost too quiet: “You weren’t here to nag me.”
Wilson freezes.
"𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴
𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨
𝘈𝘴 𝘸𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥
𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘑𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘯"
There it is. Buried under sarcasm, under deflection, under everything House uses to protect himself.
You weren’t here.
Wilson sits down on the edge of the couch, closer now. “You could’ve asked me to stay.”
House lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, because that’s something I’m great at. Asking people not to leave.”
Wilson looks at him, really looks this time. At the walls he knows by heart. The ones House thinks are invisible.
“You don’t have to ask,” Wilson says softly. “I keep coming back anyway.”
House’s expression flickers. Something raw, unguarded, just for a second.
“That’s the problem,” he mutters. “You always come back.”
“Why is that a problem?”
“Because one day you won’t.”
Wilson shakes his head immediately. “That’s not—”
“It is,” House snaps, then forces himself to dial it back. “It’s math, Wilson. Eventually the odds—”
“Stop,” Wilson says, firmer now. “This isn’t probability. This is choice.”
House goes still.
Wilson leans in just slightly. “I choose you. Every time.”
Silence again, but different now. Heavier. Charged.
House looks away first, like he can’t quite hold that kind of honesty without it burning him.
“You shouldn’t,” he says.
“Probably not.”
“Definitely not.”
Wilson smiles faintly. “And yet.”
House huffs out something that might be a laugh, might be surrender.
“Idiot.”
“Takes one to love one.”
That gets him, a real reaction. A small smirk, reluctant but there.
Wilson reaches out before he can overthink it, resting his hand lightly against House’s wrist. Testing. Giving him time to pull away.
House doesn’t.
He just looks at their hands for a long moment, like he’s trying to figure out how something so simple can feel so…dangerous.
"𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘸𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘯 𝘛𝘰𝘬𝘺𝘰 𝘉𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘶𝘴 𝘶𝘱 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘢𝘺
𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘫𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘯"
“You left,” House says finally, quieter now.
Wilson nods. “I did.”
“And you came back.”
“Yeah.”
House’s fingers shift slightly under his, not quite holding on, but not letting go either.
“…Idiot,” he repeats, softer this time.
Wilson squeezes his wrist gently. “Yeah. Your idiot.”
That earns him a look sharp, searching, but not rejecting.
“Don’t get sentimental on me,” House warns.
“Too late.”
Another pause.
"𝘈 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘧𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘢𝘺
𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥, 𝘴𝘩𝘦'𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘯
𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘫𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘯"
Then, almost reluctantly, House leans back into the couch, just enough that their shoulders brush.
It’s not dramatic. Not a grand gesture.
But for House?
It’s everything.
Wilson lets himself relax into it, just a little. Not pushing. Not asking for more.
He doesn’t need to.
Because just like the song says, even if House would never admit it out loud
Some things aren’t made to stay gone.
And neither is he.
"𝘠𝘦𝘴, 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘣𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘫𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘯"