Always on my Mind
ORIGINALLY WRITTEN: February 2025
SUMMARY: Things are almost back to normal. After an eventful funeral crash, and a few harshly exchanged words, Wilson is scheduled back to work at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Him and House have… mostly reconciled. But a friendly check-in is overdue.
The steady knocks were something Wilson has become attuned to over the past several months. If it wasn’t House trying–and failing–to worm his way back into his life, it was someone checking up on him. Chase, Cameron, Foreman… even Cuddy, when she found the spare time and managed to shake the trail of the aforementioned worm. Sometimes it was people from his grief counseling, usually following up after a particularly deep session to ensure that he really had the support he needed. Yet despite this attunement, the door never became that much easier to answer. It was laborious; tiring. It made him want to simply turn around and shuffle back to bed in hopes that it went away.
But it never did, did it?
And so he answered, and behold–House was there, standing patiently whilst fidgeting with his cane.
“Finally, I was starting to wonder if I’d have to try breaking in. Even borrowed some lockpicks from Foreman.” A lie, but he still reached into his pocket as if fishing for their retrieval.
Wilson rolled his eyes. “What do you want, House?”
Faux offense. “Can’t a guy check in on his best friend?” A pause. “I mean it, by the way. Was in the area and thought–”
“To come check on me? Since when do you do bedside manner?”
“Since I met your mother last night.”
“Ok–” A steady hand began to shut the door. A rigid cane tip slid between the frame and wood.
“I’m kidding. Seriously, though. After… you know…” A lull. He really wasn’t getting any better at this, and it wasn’t getting easier. He tried, though, vulnerability be damned. “We screamed at each other, nearly killed ourselves, crashed my dad’s funeral, and got a bite to eat. Still haven’t exactly talked about things.”
Wilson… didn’t know how to react to that. It was written all over his face: surprise. Something he, not mere days ago, went on about how he couldn’t believe he felt the emotion anymore when it came to House’s behaviors. But this was different; this was raw. Vulnerable. A genuine attempt at rekindling their decades-long friendship after realizing just how much it really meant. And it was surprising. Enough to make Wilson speechless; only able to nod as he slowly opened the door and stepped aside to let House in.
One of the first things any visitor would notice was the way the apartment felt so… lifeless. It wasn’t sterile by any means–the thickets of dust were an allergist’s nightmare–but it wasn’t lived in. Things were frozen in their place, neatly preserved as if part of some sort of museum exhibit. Signs of Wilson’s life were subtle at best; the odd stack of mail on the dining table, the misconstrued shoes tucked by the front door, the subtle divot in the couch where he’d curl up and cry himself to sleep as the television played in the background (that is, if he couldn’t find the energy to trudge into the bedroom, where Amber’s final message to him lay on the nightstand). It was all obvious to the observant eye of House, though. It showed just as much as the dark circles beneath Wilson’s eyes and that sorrowful, slumped posture of his did, even through his attempted bravado.
“So, now that you’re coming back, you staying here or…?”
Wilson peered over the refrigerator door. “You’re asking if I’m going to move closer to work?”
“Sure, let’s go with that.”
“Right, sorry, back in with you is probably the better guess–Yes, I’m staying here. The commute’s a bit longer but it’s really not a big deal.” The door shut, and Wilson crossed the threshold into the living room with two beers in hand. “It’s manageable.”
“But it’s different.” House took one, happily seating himself on the couch and–much to Wilson’s dismay–propping his feet up on the coffee table. “You had company before. Now you’re out of the carpool lane.”
Wilson eyed his feet before sighing and sitting beside him. “That’s what the radio is for. Or, you know, rolling the window down. You drive by yourself all the time.”
“I’m usually by myself all the time.”
A pause. The subtle knitting of brows as his voice lowered. “You’ve come to lecture me about Amber again, haven’t you?”
“No… Yes. Not entirely.”
“We talked about this–”
“No, we didn’t.”
“Yes, we did.” Wilson sat forward and put his bottle on the table. “Why do you care so much? I am… perfectly fine where I’m at right now. Yes, it’s strange. Yes, it’s sad. Yes, it’s uncomfortable at times–that’s grief, House. I’m here because I want to be, and I won’t let that go just because–”
“You can’t let it go.”
Their eyes met. Wilson could feel that familiar tautness in his muscles; the bubbling anger and frustration that took hold of him in those initial days after her death. That innate desire to grab House and hold his gaze as he bore into him about how everything wrong in his life was his fault. House, on the other hand, was relaxed; calm in that seemingly disinterested way of his. Yet there was something more in his eyes that, alongside the slow breaths he took, helped Wilson bury the bile that rose.
“... And what if I can’t?” Wilson’s voice was softer now, balancing on the edge of stability and instability; sat atop the tipping point waiting for everything to crumble. “This is… this is all I have left of Amber. Getting rid of this…”
“Doesn’t get rid of her.” House’s voice, too, was softer. It was firm, as it usually was, but there was an odd comfort in the way he spoke. A caution he rarely took with those around him. “It’s not all you have–it’s just the physical representation of it. A sad memory that seriously needs some cleaning. I thought I was bad, but I can practically see the mites jumping for joy–”
“House.”
“... I know the last time I told you to admit it went south, but seriously: Admit it. You’re afraid of losing anyone–and anything–that matters. It came to you unexpected once; it was personal, and you ran from it. You did everything to prevent it. And now that you finally have some control over it again, you’re afraid to move on.”
Shoulders slumped. There was a part of Wilson–and a loud one at that–that knew House was right. That he was afraid of moving on; of returning to normalcy. Every little thing in this apartment was a snapshot of their final, normal minutes together. It was a snapshot of Amber coming home from work and dressing herself down. Of Wilson waiting for her with dinner on the table, still in his work clothes. Of the way they kissed so tenderly as they caught up on the events of the other’s days, chit chatting about every little thing and laughing amidst all the chaos. Disrupting it, deep down, felt like disrupting that. And Wilson just couldn’t bring himself to do it. The thought alone was enough to make his eyes water. It caused him to lurch forward and rub the balls of his palms against his brow bone as he tried to hide that fact from House.
But it didn’t escape him. Things rarely did.
“Just… move on, Wilson.” He grimaced at his own words, turning to avoid the tearful gaze that bore into him. “You know that’s what she would have wanted.”
“And how do you know–”
“I don’t. Nobody does. She’s too dead to tell us.” A pause. A sigh. “But I know as well as anybody else that… this,” House gestures vaguely to the room around them, “isn’t living either.”
It wasn’t. Wilson knew it wasn’t. He took a shuddered breath and slowly sat back, pressing his palms more firmly to his forehead before dropping his arms. He stared at the popcorn ceiling, watching the way the light accentuated the texture.
“... You’re right. It’s not.” A pause. “... I still have time on the lease, and it’s really not a terrible location.”
House craned his head. “But?”
“No buts. I… genuinely like it here. It’s a nice change of pace.” Wilson smiled. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, but something was better than nothing. At least, in this case. “I’ll clean it up, though.”
“That’s still a but.” House grinned. “You just changed the wording so you didn’t say it.”
Wilson turned to look at House. He smiled more. “Oh, shut up.”