Title: falling, fallen
Fandom: House MD
Rating: PG-13
Length: 936 words
Content notes: Talk of death.
Author notes: Fills the 'Fall' square in my bingo card for this comm. Also fills the square for ya'aburnee in my allbingo 'untranslatable words' card. 
Summary: House has nightmares and in middle of the exhaustion, does something he tends to not let himself do.



House has dreams where he loses his husband.

It’s nothing more than dreams, yes, he knows this, but there’s something about seeing Wilson in a pool of his own blood, about seeing Wilson scream until his vocal cords don’t work, about Wilson dying slowly in his arms from a disease his mind never decides on.

All he knows when he’s deep into slumber is that Wilson is dying.

Wilson is dying and god, he needs to work fast, he can’t have him die. He can’t have his husband die, have his husband fall into his arms and take a shuddering breath, his last shuddering breath. It’s all almost comical, how Wilson insists he’s fine even as he bleeds. He knows it’s just like him to do so, too. He cares more about anyone else than himself.

“I’m fine,” Wilson says, clutching at his side like he won’t notice the blood staining his hand red.

“Wilson,” he says, voice soft and broken and airy with tears. “I need to take you to the hospital—”

“I’m fine!” Wilson insists, panicking and holding onto House. His gaze softens, and he manages a smile. “I’m fine, House. Everything’s gonna be—” he coughs blood into House’s shirt. “Everything’s going to be fine, House.” His voice lowers, falters, and House’s heart clenches up in his chest and all he can think of is that he can’t do this, he can’t do this.

“Wilson,” he breathes.

The setting blurs— all he can see is tears clouding his vision, bushes and trees, and pavement, infinite pavement. But there’s no houses, just a gas station and all he knows is that Wilson is dying on his arms.

Wilson takes a shuddering breath, leans up to kiss House. He can taste metal. “I love you.”

“Wilson!” he yells.

Wilson’s grip on House’s shirt loosens up and he’s a dead weight, rolling off House’s hands directly into the bloodied ground.

House screams, staring at his husband’s body, and he wakes up frozen in the spot, Wilson snoring softly into his pillow.

He’s brought back to reality, but he can still smell death all over him, and he can still feel Wilson’s hand loosening up, having him fall into the ground, the stab wound fresh and new on his side.

Before he can stop himself, he lets himself do one of the things he’s never let himself do. Wilson is a heavy sleeper, he won’t notice, and he’ll pull away when he falls back into a fretful sleep. So he turns and wraps his arms around Wilson, holding onto him and burying his face on his chest. He pulls a hand away and absentmindedly traces lines on his almost invisible top surgery scars. There was a time, where they had just met, where they were so much more visible. They’ve faded over two decades, almost nonexistent now.

He’s pulled off his thoughts of the passage of time— thinking about anything to distract himself of Wilson dying— by Wilson shifting on his hold before humming, and then he opens his eyes and makes a noise.

“House?” he whispers, thrown off by House holding onto him.

“Shut up and go back to sleep,” he grumbles, still holding onto him.


“Did something happen?” Wilson asks, putting a hand on House’s hair. The motion makes him relax, makes him draw in a deep breath and put his head to Wilson’s chest, staring down at his stomach.

“Wilson,” he says, almost a protest.

“House.”

“I…” He’s fucking exhausted, alright, he’s tired out and it feels like he hasn’t slept in two days although he has slept, all because of his stupid nightmares. He knows they mean something, although he wouldn’t like to delve too deep into it. All he’ll accept is that it means he cares, which is to be expected considering his ten year anniversary of being married is slowly approaching.

“I hope I die before you,” he continues.

He doesn’t look up to see him, his face buried on Wilson’s chest, but he can see him squint, can see his brows furrow.

“House?”

“Because I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”

Wilson takes a deep breath and wraps his arms around House, pulling him even closer. House will deny it to death, but a sob leaves his mouth, and a few tears slide down his cheeks. Wilson makes no comment, though— he ruffles his hair, kisses his forehead, squeezes his shoulder.

“I’m right here,” he whispers, because he knows exactly what would cause Gregory House to say something like that.

House’s eyes close and he starts tracing lines over Wilson’s top surgery scars, hoping that tomorrow night he won’t dream of all this again. Wilson is holding him, whispering reassurances that are frankly stupid and ridiculous into his hair, and all he can do is soak up in it, because he’s aware he won’t let himself have that when he’s running on more than two hours of good sleep.

“Go back to sleep, honey,” he says, kissing his forehead. “I’ll be right here when you wake up. I promise.”

Wilson’s voice is feather-soft and so many emotions build up in his heart he can’t process them at all. But he doesn’t try to process them, because he’s never been good at doing so.

“Good night,” he whispers into Wilson’s chest, his voice strained and high with tears he dares to sleep only during these desperate hours.

Wilson squeezes his shoulder again, House kisses one of his scars, and he buries his face on the crook of his neck. He has the best sleep he’s had in a week or two.