love, lee.

The sound Akihiko makes rises deep from his throat, a gurgling grunt breaking free into an agonized shout. Two years of fighting by his side, and you’ve never heard him make that sound before. You whirl around just in time to watch as the Furious Gigas pounces on a downed Akihiko.

Your legs move faster than your brain. His name leaves you in a desperate shout. This draws Takeba and Yuki’s attention from the other Shadows that had joined the fray. They cover you, downing the Shadow with two successive strikes as you grab Akihiko under the shoulders and pull him away.

A ragged gasp leaves his mouth. “M-My…”

He’s as white as a sheet. His chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. Even through his clothing, you can feel his skin growing clammy and cool.

You follow his gaze and your stomach turns. His right leg, below the knee…

You know that, given enough force, bone can splinter and poke through skin. You just never thought a bone could snap at a ninety degree angle.

Nausea makes you dizzy, but you steel your nerves. You can’t freeze up now or act weak. He needs you.

“Hey, Akihiko, stay with me.” You keep on pulling him, whispering apologies as every jostle of his leg makes more of those horrible sounds leave his mouth. You make it to a steel beam and rest him against it. “You’re gonna be alright. We’ll get you out of here soon.”

It takes effort, but he drags his eyes from his leg to you. His hands curl around the hem of his shirt, white-knuckled and trembling. “B-Brings back memories,” he says, trying for a smirk. You ignore that his lips are turning blue. Where's an emergency exit when you need one? “That first F-Full Moon after Yuki moved to the dorms…”

Talking is good. Talking means he’s not making those sounds anymore.

“When I saved your ass and helped you all the way back to Iwatodai?” you reply. There's nothing to splint his leg, and you don't trust yourself to set it. "Yeah, good times."

"I-I don't think...I've ever seen you so scared before."

His leg is certainly salvageable, but you need more than the Diarama that yours or Akihiko’s Persona can cast. Hell, even the Beads that Yuki keeps stocked for emergencies won’t be enough. You need a hospital, and fast. “Well, that Shadow did wreck your shit. Bet it just makes you feel cool, though, the scars on the side of your chest and all.”

Akihiko seems to have reached the same conclusion as you. He reaches for his Evoker. Before he can even grab it, you’ve already summoned your Persona and cast Diarama. The scratches and bruises elsewhere on his body fade, and some of the pallor leaves his skin, but the spell hardly touches the mangled muscle and bone below the knee.

Takeba and Yuki run over to you. The moment she sees Akihiko’s leg, her face grows a sickly shade of green and she looks pointedly at you. “Did you already—?”

“Diarama didn’t work. We need to get him out of here as quickly as possible.”

Yuki nods. He studies Akihiko, his expression impassive as per usual, although his brow is furrowed. “Can you stand?”

He looks like he’d rather die than move at the moment, but one look at you and he’s struggling to his feet. You hurry to get on his right side, supporting him before he can think to put any weight on it.

After a burst of static, Yamagishi’s frantic voice fills your head. “Are you all okay!? I saw Sanada-senpai’s health drop…”

Better to tell her the truth now instead of lie so Akihiko can save face. They’ll see the state that he’s in soon enough, regardless.

“He got really messed up,” you reply. “We’re heading to a teleporter right now.” 

Yamagishi hesitates. “How badly? Will he need a doctor?”

You silence Akihiko with a stern glare before he can protest. You can’t believe him—he's one good jolt from losing his leg from below the knee, and he's trying to weasel his way out of surgery?

“Definitely,” Yuki cuts in.

“I’ll let Ikutsuki-san know. We’ll be ready to move as soon as you get here. Stay safe.”

Takeba takes Akihiko’s other side, and the three of you limp behind Yuki. Thankfully, you had found a one-way teleporter not too long ago, so with a few cleverly crafted hiding spots and some well-placed distractions by Yuki, you make your way to the ground floor of Tartarus without any additional injuries.

The moment you step off the teleporter pad, Akihiko slumps, dead weight in your arms. Aragaki’s in front of him in a flash, catching him before he can take you and Takeba down with him.

“Let me guess,” Aragaki gripes. “He tried to show off one too many times, and a Shadow knocked him on his ass? I keep tellin' him: just 'cause you can take a punch doesn't mean you need to."

His tirade is white noise, entering one ear and leaving the other. As Aragaki wraps one of Akihiko's arms around his shoulders and supports him by the hip, you can't take your eyes off his face. If his chest weren't rising and falling with rapid, shallow respirations—if his brow weren't furrowed, sweat beading to drip down the side of his jaw—you'd think he was dead.

Dead...

Mitsuru turns on her bike. “Get Akihiko over here. We need to move quickly.”

Aigis’ eyes flash a brighter blue as she scans Akihiko’s body. Koromaru whines loudly, shifting in place, while Amada simply stares with eyes the size of saucers. Despite his demeanor, he’s still a kid. Until now, maybe he wasn’t truly aware of the amount of harm that Tartarus can cause.

“From a brief scan, the injury has released critical levels of electrolytes and enzymes into the surrounding blood vessels and musculature, pushing his body into a state of shock. He has also lost consciousness. Kirijio-san is correct; to reduce the risk of him losing a limb, he must be transported to a hospital as soon as possible.”

Junpei shakes his head slowly, watching as Aragaki places Akihiko's limp form in front of Mitsuru. She cages him in with her arms and brings the kickstand up. “How the hell did that even happen? And why didn’t a Diarama or something take care of it?”

“It’s happened before,” Aragaki says. “Sometimes, those kinds of injuries don’t heal well here. Broken bones and the like. Especially if they get into your head.”

Mitsuru nods. “He’s a fighter. The fear of losing a limb is likely doing its due diligence on his psyche.” After putting her helmet on, she revs the engine, and gives you and Aragaki a curt nod. “Take care of the others. I’ll let you know when we make it there.”

You can't reply. Your mind is working sluggishly: shouldn't you support his leg, is it safe for him to be on the bike right now, will he make it through the night—

The red taillights of her bike and the sound of its engine disappear into the distance. You watch her go; now that the adrenaline of the moment is fading, you feel halfway to collapsing yourself.

“Don’t go passing out on me,” Aragaki warns. “Let’s get moving.”

Koromaru lets out a louder whine as he presses his snout against your leg. You shuffle forward obediently. It’s only when Junpei comes up next to you and puts a hand against your back that you snap back into yourself.

“I’ll go on ahead to the hospital,” you tell Aragaki. So much weakness in so little time; you have to show your underclassmen that you're still the capable third-year they met back in April. “You should get everyone back to the dorm safely.”

Aigis frowns. “As soon as they arrive, the hospital will prepare him for emergency surgery. You will not get there before they take him to the operating room. Why would you risk your safety during this hour instead of coming back with us to await further instructions at the dorm?”

Takeba manages a smile. “‘Cause Senpai cares about him.”

“Cares about him a lot,” Junpei teases, drawing out the “o” as he flutters his eyelashes.

“Understood. I will add that to my growing database concerning the relationships between each member of S.E.E.S.”

You wave your hands frantically. “N-No, Aigis, you don’t need to do that—”

Aragaki cuts in. “Hey, dumbass, you’ll take forever to get there at this rate. Let the robot do her thing, and you focus on doing yours.”

“I’ll try my best to guide you until the Dark Hour is over,” Yamagishi says. “It’ll be limited considering we’ll be moving as well, but hopefully it’ll be enough to keep you safe.”

“I appreciate it, Yamagishi-chan,” you reply. “I’ll see you guys back at the dorm.”

-

You sit by Akihiko’s bedside, arms crossed as you try not to nod off. You’ve never seen so many IV bags and monitors hooked up to one person before. The monotony of their beeping lulls you into a false sense of security, but you think back to a few hours prior, when they hadn’t been monotonous and instead a swarm of hospital professionals came into the room, shielding Akihiko from your view…

Steam rises to your face, accompanied by the smell of coffee.

Your hands rise of their own accord. When you accept the cup, Mitsuru takes a seat next to you, flipping her hair behind her shoulder with a flourish. Despite her posture and collected demeanor, the furrow between her brows hasn’t gone away since you found her in the waiting room during Akihiko’s surgery.

“How is he?”

You take a sip. It’s black and horribly bitter, an acidity that only instant coffee is able to achieve, but you need the caffeine more than you need the taste right now. “Stable.”

She sighs. “That’s a relief. Ikutsuki-san talked to the doctor, and he said Akihiko should wake up sometime later this morning.”

Your eyes wander to the clock. It’s a little past four in the morning. Your bones ache from the Tartarus exploration, but you can’t fall asleep until you know that Akihiko is okay.

“You need to take care of yourself,” she says softly. “You know that’s what he would say.”

“He was protecting me.”

The words tumble out, your voice hoarse.

“I was so focused on those other Shadows that had ambushed us, I didn’t realize the Gigas had gotten up.” Your free hand curls into a tight fist in your lap, trembling as you try to hold back tears. As your eyes move away from the clock, you find yourself avoiding Akihiko’s unconscious body for the first time since he got back.

She falls silent. Then, as if testing the waters: “Have you…considered why he may have done that?”

You snort. “Because he’s a self-sacrificing meathead?”

“I think more for you than for anyone else on S.E.E.S.” You whip your head around to stare at her with wide eyes. Despite the situation, she smiles, raising her cup to her lips. “It’s easy to see. Since middle school, though he would never admit it out loud, he’s always been protective of you.”

As her words sink in, you finally look over to Akihiko again. You catalogue every moment where he’s taken a hit for you, from your first experience of the Dark Hour to your first year at Gekkoukan to this. And Mitsuru is right—compared to herself, Aragaki, or even the newest members of S.E.E.S, he’s watched your back more than anyone else.

Sure, it’s been mutual, covering each other's weaknesses and celebrating each other's victories, but…

“It’s because he thinks I’m weak,” you reply with a wave of your hand.

Mitsuru laughs. “If you believe yourself to be weak, then I may be the weakest one of us all. Give yourself credit—you’re quick on your feet and smart, not to mention your Persona packs quite the punch. And don’t discredit his feelings, either.”

“His feelings?” you repeat.

"If you could hear the way he talks about you, you would never believe yourself to be anything but strong."

With warm cheeks, you stare down at your cup. The way he talks about me? you repeat with incredulity.

Mitsuru glances up at the clock. “I’ll leave you with some privacy. Maybe you’ll have the chance to get some sleep here.”

You jump at the opportunity to distract yourself from her confusing remark. “You’re not going to drag me to the dorm? I thought you hated when we stayed out past dark.”

“You would fight me if I did,” she says with some hint of amusement. “They have extra pillows and blankets in that closet next to the door. You’re lucky it’s a Saturday night.”

After bidding you good night, she disappears out the door, leaving you glued to your seat. You can’t take your eyes away from Akihiko now, watching the gentle rise and fall of his breath as you listen to the steady beeping of the monitor.

You set your cooling, no doubt decaffeinated, coffee down on the bedside table. Mitsuru must not have trusted you to get some rest; you can't blame her.

The doctor said Akihiko would be out for most of the day, and wouldn’t be able to hold a conversation when he woke up, but you can't help the irrational desire to be awake for him when he does. Still, you fold your arms on the mattress and rest your head in the crook of your elbow. Your fingers lay centimeters away from his.

You hesitate , wondering what would happen if he woke up and found your fingers intertwined with his, scared that he would disappear if you weren’t tethered to him.

Would he tighten his grip or pull away? Ridicule you, even in his delirious state, or reassure you that he would never leave?

“Don’t try to discredit his feelings.”

Before you can chicken out, you lay your hand on top of his. Smooth with faint scars from dozens of fights in Tartarus, it’s warm against your skin. You hadn’t realized you were shaking.

“You scared me,” you mumble. You run your thumb over his knuckles, turn his hand over and trace the lines in his palm. “You’ll always scare me.”

Is it your imagination, or does his hand twitch? You remember reading that even in a state of unconsciousness, hospital patients are aware of the world around them. Comatose patients would wake up, having vague ideations of what their family members or the hospital personnel had done or said in the room.

Words hang frozen on your tongue. Do you dare voice them, knowing that he may hear?

With a thick swallow, you whisper, "Don't you ever leave me."

The shaking has permeated your entire body now. The fear of losing him, startled away by the desire to protect him in Tartarus, returns with full force. If you hadn't gotten back to the entrance fast enough, if Takeba and Yuki hadn't downed the Shadow before it could get to Akihiko, if a million other things had or hadn't happened...

Can you stomach the idea of losing him? It's always been a possibility; Mitsuru had warned you of that when you first joined. Not just your own life, but everyone's hangs in the balance of strength and endurance, of luck and speed. There have been so many close calls, yet you can't get the image of his limp form slumped against Aragaki out of your head.

Why him? Why this occurrence?

His grip tightens around yours without warning. The heart rate on the monitor picks up ever so slightly. You flinch and look up to see his eyes half-open, fluttering as he fights to stay awake.

"...never leave..." he slurs, already being dragged back under by the sedatives. "Always...be by your side..."

“...do you figure out this is anything but your fault?”

Once upon a time, you would have approached Wilson’s office with two coffees. Now, your free hand hovers over the door, hesitant to knock at the sound of voices on the other side. Not just any voices, either—one unmistakably Wilson’s, the other House’s rising to a boil.

“House—”

“She would have been willing to split her stupid little heart open just to keep you warm. And instead of treasuring that because you know that kind of naivety only comes around once in a lifetime, you go and mess it up for you and for her.”

You scoff. To hear it called naivety irks you, but he isn’t wrong. What else do you call the rose-tinted glasses that you had all but superglued to your face? You let your hand drop to your side, and instead lean on the door frame, ears perked.

“Now, what? You think you can just go back and pretend everything is okay? You’re colleagues, sure, but that doesn’t mean you can be all buddy-buddy with her.”

“It’s not being ‘buddy-buddy.’ She and I are coworkers, and she deserves to be treated with respect.”

“Respect!” He laughs in disbelief. “You stare after her like a lovesick puppy and pretend it doesn’t hurt her when she sees you looking at her more carefully than you ever did in your entire relationship.”

He picks up on things that you notice but pay no mind to, simply because it takes less energy and less heartache to pretend it never happened at all. And it’s startling, really, to hear him defending you with such vitriol. You never thought he could get so upset on someone else’s behalf, especially not out loud.

“So what, House? You think just because you’re so miserable, people can’t regret their actions?”

“If you regret it at all, you wouldn’t have done it in the first place.” There’s a pause, as if he has come up with an idea on the spot. “The cheating is one thing. But all of this…pining…well, call me a hypocrite for pointing out morals. It’s not right to do it to someone who’s already moved on.”

You’re glad your to-go cup has a lid; the strength of your flinch sloshes the coffee around in its cup. Wilson’s surprise is audible even in its silence, tension making the air grow thick. You can almost imagine the smug look on House’s face.

“M-Moved on? When the hell was this?”

“Oh, she never told you? Poor you. Guess you’re not entitled to your ex’s secrets.”

You can’t take more of this back-and-forth pissing contest. You gulp your cooling coffee down in a few sips to give yourself strength, toss the empty cup in the trash, and knock on the door. The voices on the other side go quiet.

“Dr. Wilson?”

The door swings open. House looks pleased to see you, while Wilson looks like he’s taken his first steps on dry land after a horrible bout of seasickness. He stares at you with wide eyes and a hand still in his hair, messing up his carefully crafted poise.

“The woman of the hour! Glad you could join us.” House steps aside so you can enter Wilson’s office. “I was just telling Wilson about your big news. Your new, hot, debonair romance. I mean, everyone around the hospital has already heard about it in one way or another.”

The look in his eyes says Play along. The impulsivity of the moment makes your mouth move faster than your mind.

“Why didn’t you just tell him it was you?”

The effect is instantaneous. Wilson’s eyes widen even more as his jaw drops. House flinches back, but there’s something in his expression that carries begrudging respect. Though heat rises to your face, it’s too late to back down—plus, the petty hurt that you still carry seems to ebb a little as the regret you had wanted to see so badly all those weeks ago finally darkens Wilson’s expression.

“That’s…” Wilson spreads his hands out wide. “I’m…happy for you.”

House snorts. “Wow, tell the choir to calm down so I can hear how genuinely happy you are.”

You gently swat at House’s arm. “Hey, don’t tease him.” You turn to Wilson as you bury your hands in your pockets. “Well? There’s a patient you wanted a consult for, wasn’t there?”

He clears his throat, but it takes him a few tries. “Of course. I have her file right here.” Despite trying to be professional, there’s a bite in his tone as he adds, “Patient confidentiality is still a thing, House.”

He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Right, right. Don’t mind me. I’ll just…be in my office, I suppose.” As you and he make eye contact, you swear, his gaze softens. “I’ll see you later.”

You nod. He leaves through the door, letting it swing shut, and you’re glad that Wilson wastes no time in sitting down at his office chair with the patient’s file already open.

He doesn’t look up at you, brisk in a manner you had never seen before. He breezes through his findings, you add your own based on what he tells you, and in record time he’s holding open the door for you so the two of you can walk down to the patient’s room together.

As you do, though, he pauses. Though he closes the door, his hand wavers on the handle. He stares down at the carpet, still not meeting your eyes.

“Dr. Wilson?”

His throat bobs. If this hadn’t been deserved, you would feel bad for him. And you think he knows that, too, judging by the way he shakes his head and manages to smile when he looks up at you.

“It’s nothing. I’m just…I am happy for you, you know.”

You deserved better. Was that the implied second part of his statement?

Either way, you smile back at him. “Thank you. Will you be giving him a shovel talk now?”

It’s a shaky olive branch, but one he accepts nonetheless. The chuckle he lets out is more genuine as he finally lets go of the handle and puts a hand on the back of his neck. “Well, it won’t be as creative as the one he gave me, but I’ll try my best.”

Your mind is elsewhere as you talk to Wilson’s patient and walk her through the psychiatric evaluation. It’s one you’ve done so many times that you go on autopilot (though you do feel bad for being so distant) and instead think back to House.

That he had not only been defending you, but wanted to help you get some form of revenge.

And that he was perfectly capable of faking or hiding his emotions, but had looked at you with…care.

That was the most confusing part. As you mark down your evaluations on a paper to be placed into the patient’s file and offer her phone numbers for social work and case management, you find that’s the most confusing part of this. Was it a charade, or something else?

The patient leaves, and Wilson follows soon after, wishing you good night and a safe drive back home. You’ll see him again and again, the natures of your jobs so closely intertwined that you could have never escaped him unless you fully left the hospital.

But for now, as the lights in the hospital dim and you peer in through the glass windows of House’s office, you choose not to think about any of that.

House is on his feet as soon as you enter. His ball teeters on the edge of the desk and falls to the ground, but he makes no move to catch it. "Finally, I thought he would never be done with you."

You roll your eyes. "House, just because you have lackeys to do your work for you, doesn't mean the rest of us don't have jobs we need to do."

"Fair." He scratches his chin. Nails scraping against that goddamned 5 o'clock shadow fills the silence between you. You're trying to think of how to address what had happened earlier when he adds, "That was perfect, by the way. I wasn’t expecting you to be so quick on the uptake, but it was worth it to see his reaction.”

“For being his friend, you sure are quick to prey on his downfall,” you muse drily. “Are you really playing favorites now? I thought you told me that you didn’t want to.”

“Oh, that was before he messed up big time.”

You lean back against the door frame. There’s something unspoken, something charged as he limps over to you. You look up at him.

“You know, I wasn’t expecting someone who called me a moron to defend me so passionately.”

He shrugs. “I never said I hated stupid people.”

“Yes, you did. You do. All the time.”

“Well…”

You kick a leg back and press your foot against the frame. It makes your thigh tense, and you watch House watch the movement. He’s always been a womanizer, that much you can say with confidence, but though the near predatory look in his eyes betrays his thoughts, it doesn't change the fact that his gaze is still soft when he looks at you.

What if it wasn't just for revenge?

The thought jumps to your mind, unbidden, and it blossoms so quickly you hardly have the time to stamp it down before residual flames leap up from underneath your foot.

What if I want it to be real?

What if I want it to be you?

Your mouth goes dry. Your face grows warm, for a different reason than embarrassment.

House raises an eyebrow. You wonder what he would say if you asked him those questions. If he would scoff and say something like, "Now you're being a bad researcher; those aren't hypotheses, those are just dumb questions..."

Or...

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say instead. You boost yourself off the wall and spin with a little more gusto than necessary. Maybe the "what ifs" don't weigh heavier than the doubt heavy in your chest, but no one is here now to call you out on your poor choices.

You hear House audibly grunt as you open the door, something close to your name.

What if we let this play out longer than it needs to?

“Boyfriend,” you call impishly over your shoulder, peeking as you do. House has gone stone-faced, and the sight is enough to make you laugh.

The weight of realization doesn’t hit you like the shoe that House said that it would. It doesn’t leave you in a gasp of shock, or even in the form of tears rolling down your face. It leaves your mouth as nothing more than a quiet, “Oh.”

You’re glad you’re the only one in the locker room. It gives you the grace to sit down on the bench, your legs weak underneath you. You stare up at the still-open locker door. You feel like you’re having an out-of-body experience—and you don’t know why you’re so surprised.

After all, it’s something that you should have seen coming.

You stare down at the simple, black, ballpoint pen in your hands. All of it is generic, save for the scuffing of the metal clip and the golden center band. This is Wilson’s pen, the one that he uses for everything. You can see it in the stationery cup on his desk, or peeking out from his white coat.

He told you that he had misplaced it. He probably did. It just wasn’t somewhere you could have foreseen.

You set the pen down on the bench next to you and lean forward, gazing emptily at the ground between your feet. It was a harmless request from a girl at the nurse’s station; she had forgotten her jacket and had asked you to grab it from her locker, since she needed to finish charting.

You should have never said yes. You likely would have found out eventually. The signs have been there for weeks, ever since the first night that Wilson said guiltily that he wouldn’t have time to see you at his apartment after the two of you got off work that day. And then it was every other day, and soon you only saw him when he deigned to have lunch with you. But you were so blinded by your determination to make things last.

And maybe, the longer you had gone without knowing, the more it would have hurt. But the realization could have come years after everyone’s warnings stopped, after House’s blunt criticisms and Cameron’s gentle reminders faded into nothingness. You could have been happy, and later let surprise backhand you across the face to save you from the embarrassment now doing so instead.

You grasp the pen tightly. What you would do now, to have the anger and vitriol to bend it in half. Instead, you think back to House’s words. “People never change,” you echo under your breath with a bitter smile.

You contemplate pretending that you had never known. All you had to do was go home to Wilson and say that you had found his pen on the ground. Or, better yet, have your own petty revenge and hide it somewhere so he would never see it again. If only losing a pen hurt as much as you do now, rather than being a minor inconvenience. But you could keep playing this charade, and if Wilson had yet to say anything, you’re certain he would have no qualms doing the same.

But, again, you’ve known this whole time that something was wrong. And with what you know now, how could you keep going through the motions when you don’t have blind affection as an excuse anymore?

That’s how you find yourself standing there in Wilson’s apartment, long after the sun has set. He looks up from a book, and the corners of his lips curl into that charming smile. He gets up from the sofa, opening his mouth to say something.

Without a word, you hold the pen out to him. “Missing something?”

His gaze drops to the pen. His mouth opens and closes. “I—”

“It’s been gone for a few weeks now,” you continue. “But, funnily enough, I found it.”

He clears his throat. “Where?”

You stay quiet until he finally meets your gaze. And you can tell: he knows that you know. He shoves his hands into his pockets, and the air grows unbearably tense.

You wait for him to say something. Anything that would tell you: yes, it really is worth it to ache on someone else’s behalf. That your nonsense, spouting about the natural human condition, had true anecdotal evidence. Your own blood in your hands didn’t have to be moronic or self-defeating; if he said it just the right way, you could forgive him. You could point and laugh in House’s face, proud that you had bet on the winning dog this time.

But instead, he squeezes his eyes shut. He draws a hand out from his pocket to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“It’s not—” He cuts himself off.

It’s not what you think.

You both know that's bullshit.

“I’m sorry,” he says instead.

It’s genuine. But not the way you want it. Not one from love, or from anger at himself. Not even one to cover his ass, which you would’ve preferred. At least then you could address him with the anger that he deserved.

It’s an apology of guilt. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t change for you.”

Your heart climbs to your throat. All you can choke out is a quiet, “House was right.”

He doesn’t move from his spot. You breeze through his apartment, thankful that you had never left more than a change of clothes and some travel-sized toiletries here. Within the span of a few moments, you’re back at the door, turned away from him.

You grab your keys and fumble with the key ring. Locating Wilson’s spare, the one he had given you, you throw it at him. He catches it in one hand; the moment it makes contact, it’s as if reality catches up to him.

“W-Wait, you can’t just leave,” he sputters. “It’s…late.”

“I would rather walk home in the dark and get hit by a car than be here with you right now,” you snap back, and he flinches.

You wrench open the door. Sentences and phrases flood your mind, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of saying anything more. Instead, the door slams shut behind you, and you don’t look back.

You're unsure where to go. Your own home has memories, and you don't know if you can be alone with your thoughts right now. The hospital is quite a drive. You can't stomach another person's pity right now.

But there is one person who likely won't give you that.

You question the integrity of your decision even as you walk to your car. Regardless, on autopilot, you find yourself knocking at a familiar door.

"I'm naked right now! Don't wanna see, you should definitely go away!"

"It beats walking back home right now," you reply loudly.

There's a moment of silence (you wonder if you've managed to surprise him) before a shuffling gait approaches the door. It swings open, revealing a disheveled and thankfully fully-clothed House.

“Wow, you look pitiful.”

You shake your head. “House, please.”

He barely steps aside, but it’s enough room for you to squeeze past him. “The honeymoon phase finally ended? I feel like ‘I told you so’ is an appropriate statement, but you’re probably not here for me to state the obvious.”

You don't bother asking how he knew why you're there. Instead, you sit down on his couch and dump your bag next to you. “Whiskey.”

“You don’t have it at your place?” he asks with a raised eyebrow. “So you come all the way here to steal some of mine?”

“Yours is better. Plus, I don’t drink.”

He snorts. “We all say that until we do.” He meanders over to his whiskey collection, picks one that’s half-full, and pours it into a rocks glass. You accept it and hold it up to him in mock gratitude, then knock back half of it. The burning fills your throat and sears all the way down, but it takes your mind off the psychological pain.

You lean your head back into the sofa. “Should I tell you that you were right now? Or do you want me to wait?”

“Delayed or immediate gratification?” he muses. He takes a seat next to you, having poured his own glass. “Well, I wouldn’t be opposed to immediate gratification.”

“You were right.” You take another sip, set the glass down, and press the heels of your palms into your eyes. You would never in a million years cry in front of House, but you do feel yourself getting close to it now that the adrenaline of finding out about Wilson's infidelity is starting to wear off. "I found his stupid black pen in a nurse's locker. I thought he might've tried to deny it, but he didn't. He just...apologized."

"And that made it all better?"

You drop your hands into your lap, but keep staring up at the ceiling. "Of course not. He wasn't apologizing because he was sorry for cheating."

He hums thoughtfully. "That's my boy. I give him one point for not saying things he doesn't mean. And from you, my friend, I take away one point because you go date him, then come crying to me because he couldn’t keep it in his pants, just like I told you he would. You’re a bad psychologist, but at least you’re not a bad researcher. Always have to test and observe evidence for yourself.”

You huff out a derisive laugh. “Yeah. There’s the silver lining of the situation I was looking for.”

“Thankfully, I won’t have to follow through on our shovel talk. It was a good one, I’ll give myself that, but it would’ve been such a waste of time.”

There’s something in his voice. You look over at him. He’s impassive as always (if you didn’t know him so well, the boredom would almost be insulting). One hand rests on top of his bad leg, but the other digs its fingers into the couch cushions.

Despite everything, you can’t help but smile faintly. You grab your glass again and swirl the liquid around. “True. You have so many better things to do than follow me around to the ends of the Earth.”

“Plus, it would’ve been a waste of a perfectly good cane.” He grabs said cane from the side of the couch and inspects the shaft. “I mean, I wouldn’t have to break it to break your shins. But maybe, in our hypothetical, you would have started wearing shin guards. Those would definitely scuff the wood.”

“You’re stupider than I gave you credit for.”

Even with House’s usual snark, you can’t keep a smile from coming across your face.

“You say that to everyone. When is it going to hold any substance?”

He shakes his head and kicks back in his chair, using his cane to balance himself. “No, what I meant was: for someone whose whole job surrounds psychology—also known as the study of the human mind—you really don’t seem to understand people.”

This only serves to make your grin widen. “What, my usual argument that humanity’s natural state of being is empathy, and that we can change for the people we care about, doesn’t hold any substance either? Maybe we’re both shallower than you gave us credit for.”

“If humanity’s natural state of being were empathy, Wilson wouldn’t be three wives deep with a fourth one on the way." The chair legs fall forward with a thump, and he points an accusatory finger at you. "And if you cared about yourself, you would take one second to realize that you’re setting yourself up for a T4-sized tumor in the shape of a shoe to kick you right in the ass.”

You roll your eyes. “Come on, House.”

“No, you come on.” He gets up. For a moment, you think he might actually ask you to walk with him. Instead, he jabs at your foot with his cane. Better than him hitting your shin with it, you suppose. “You and I have known Wilson for almost the same amount of time. Yet, you think dating him is a good idea?”

“What can I say?” You don’t fight to keep your gaze from softening. The retch that House lets out is gratification enough. “There’s just something about him.”

He gasps and holds his hands together like a lovesick schoolgirl. “Is it the hair? The eyes? Or the fact that he is a serial cheater and you are an idiot for even humoring the idea that he’ll stay with you for longer than it takes him to find another attractive bimbo wearing a skirt?”

“People change.”

“No, behaviors change. People never do.”

You spread your hands wide. “Is my happiness really not good enough of an argument for you?”

He groans, the loudest one you’ve heard him let out to date. “Your happiness is better served sitting here on the sidelines with me, watching Wilson fail to keep it in his pants! He hit on a married woman at a casino, for God’s sake!”

That’s something you hadn’t heard yet, but you don’t want to give House the satisfaction of your surprise. And even without House's uncensored thoughts spilling out, it's true that on your own, you’ve had these doubts. Ever since the budding feelings of a crush developed in your heart, your mind has been trying to win out.

There’s a reason why every nurse in the building knows Wilson’s name, Cameron had once told you. Even if they don’t work in oncology, that kind of reputation spreads.

Why would you set yourself up for such a perfect downfall? Maybe you’re tired of playing it safe, or maybe you want to hurt. Maybe, despite everything you’ve told House, you want proof that it’s worth it to ache on someone else’s behalf—and not just proof that you’ve read about in an article, but proof that you can hold in your hands and see with your eyes, even if it's your own blood spilling out from self-inflicted misery.

“Plus, how inconvenient is it that you’re dating each other now? For me, of course,” he adds before you can get a word in edgewise. "Sharing your time, making sure you don't sneak off on me...and now, I have to give you the shovel talk.”

“Oh, I’ve actually been waiting to hear this.”

He clears his throat. “Chase introduced me to this thought experiment of the ‘immortal snail.’ It’s this little snail that follows you around. You can’t kill it or escape from it, but the moment it touches you, you die. If you hurt Wilson or break his fragile little heart, that snail will be me. I’ll hunt you down with my cane, waiting for the moment to shatter your knees in one fell swoop. You can hide from me on any distant plane of the planet, but I will find you.”

You’re…actually in awe of his creativity. “Okay, noted.”

He waves you off. “Don’t worry, I’ll come up with an equally creative one to tell Wilson on your behalf. I can’t have you thinking I’m playing favorites.”

"Perfect." You turn and dig your hands into the pockets of your coat. "Well, I'll give James your regards, then."

"Oh, God, you're already on a first-name basis!"

A knock at your door. You stir, barely peeking your head out from the blankets. Everything hurts, you still feel soaked through to the bone even though you took a shower and changed your clothes and made some tea and did everything right.

Somebody calls your name, his voice soft. "Are you in there? Harvey said you, uh...went back home pretty fast after...everything last night."

You clench your hands into fists. Cotton curls under your fingertips, and you wish you still had nails to dig into the palms of your hands. Bitten to the pink from anxiety, but maybe that's a good thing because you would definitely be drawing blood by now.

"He said that I'm alright. At least, as alright as I can be. He had to work quick, pumping my liver and everything. I was barely conscious for most of it, but he did say that I was lucky that you found me when you did. Aside from the toxicity, with how bad it was, I could've easily rolled off the cliff and—"

Stop. Stop talking.

He seems to hear your silent pleas. He always was good at figuring out what you wanted to say before you could get the chance to.

He lets out a long, shaky sigh. Something knocks against the wood. You can picture it: him pressing his forehead against the door, hair messy and eyes heavy with sleepless nights. You wonder if he'd gotten a change of clothes, too; if that green polo and shitty purple jacket were still damp and messy with alcohol and rain and mud.

"I'm sorry," he croaks.

You pause in your mindless self-rambling to listen.

"I...I don't know..." He huffs out a short breath, and you swear you hear a curse or two. "I can only imagine how that must've felt. Going from that amazing night to...to finding me half-dead. We'd shared such a sweet moment, and I-I fucked it up. I know I did, and that's not fair to you. I don't ever want you to think that you weren't good enough. It just all hit me, all at once, like a huge truck. I was so tired of feeling."

Aren't we all?

"It's not an excuse for what I put you through." Another shuddering exhale. You wonder if he's crying. You wonder a lot about him these days. "I-I just hope you can...forgive me. I never meant to hurt you. I thought that it would hurt more if you...had to keep putting up with me."

Somewhere deep in your body you find strength to move. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and get up. You weren't even the one drinking, yet you feel like you're hungover, headache and nausea and all. Even though your hair is a mess, even though you're wearing pajamas that barely fit you anymore because they were the first thing that you grabbed last night, even though your breath stinks and you haven't eaten and everything is horrible—

—you open the door.

Shane stands there, mouth slightly agape; what was he about to say? Either way, he closes his mouth fast, and stares at you like he's never seen you before in his entire life.

You've never been good at words. So you stare at him, trying to communicate the breadth of your hurt and relief and anger.

It seems he picks up on it because his eyes water.

"I don't think I've ever been more glad to see you angry at me," he says. It's a poor attempt at a joke, but it's the dry humor that you've missed.

You carefully fold him into your arms, squeezing him tight around the torso as you bury your face into his chest. You don't know if Harvey's work had done any damage—judging by the slight hiss he lets out, the pumping definitely left a lasting impression—and you'd rather play it safe than sorry. But he hugs you back with all the strength he can muster, as if he had never been to the clinic in the first place.

You hum and shake your head.

"Are you upset?"

You nod.

"At me?"

It takes a second. You give a noncommittal shrug and squeeze him a little tighter. You're here now. But that doesn't mean I'm not mad.

He lets out a shaky laugh. As you stand there, you realize so many things have been shaky because he's shaking. "I figured. I...I really did mean everything, though."

You think back to...two nights ago. Two whole day cycles. With your hands interwoven with Shane's, with your skin pressed against his, no contact missing wherever possible. Sweet, honeyed, and careful. You'd never been treated so gently by anyone before.

And then, one night later. Marnie had come to your door in the middle of a downpour. Shane had never made it back from the saloon, and she hated to bother you so late into the night, but she was so worried and Jas was on the verge of tears and would you please help them —

—and then you'd seen him, right there on the edge, beer bottles strewn about—

—and you hadn't been able to say anything because words always escaped you even when you needed them most—

—but he had read you loud and clear anyway and asked you to take him to Harvey.

You'd never seen Harvey so serious before. Everything, all of the medical words and his frown under that bushy moustache and Shane looking paler and more lifeless by the second, had scared you away.

You realize now that it wasn't really anger. Yes, you were upset that Shane had seemingly thought nothing of your time together. Yes, you were mad that you hadn't gotten there before Shane could. Yes, you were near hysterical, bordering on a panic attack as you'd sat there for as long as you could stomach it.

But maybe, all this time, you'd just been scared. Scared of losing him.

It takes you a little too long to realize that you're on the ground and holding onto Shane like he's a lifeline and you're drowning in the middle of the ocean. You can hardly draw breaths and you're crying so hard that your throat hurts and he's rubbing circles into your back awkwardly.

You hiccup. You hit his back with your fists without any true anger, only because you don't know what else to do with your hands.

"I-I'm sorry," he's stammering. "I can go, I can understand why you're so upset—"

You shake your head viciously. It only makes the headache worsen, and you're certain you look like you've gone mad, but you want nothing more than for him to stay with you, right here.

You mime writing, and he helps you stand up. Even as you walk, you're holding onto him. There's some irrational part of you that's scared all of this has been a hallucination, and the moment you let go of him, he'll vanish and it'll be Harvey or Marnie instead.

You grab a piece of paper and a pencil. Your hand is shaking so bad that you can barely write, but it's legible.

Not mad at you. I'm scared of losing you.

His brow furrows. "You were hitting me like you were mad at me."

You scowl. I didn't know what else to do. Stupid.

A little gasp. He looks affronted. You stick your tongue out at him and continue writing.

I was scared that all of this didn't mean anything to you. Got confused and thought I was mad. I'm upset that you thought you had no other option.

He lurches forward and grabs your hand. "No, no. I know I'm stupid, and I know I make you upset sometimes. But nothing has ever meant as much to me as this"—he uses his free hand to gesture between the two of you—"does, right now."

You squeeze onto his hand tight. Never do that again. I'll help you find help. But never scare me like that again. Please.

“That’s why I came here, actually.” He lets your hands hang between the two of you, resting gently on the table. “Harvey got me connected with an old friend of his in Zuzu City…a therapist.” He says it like it’s some kind of curse, but his expression betrays a careful optimism. "I’m gonna start taking things a little more seriously from now on. I don’t want to be a burden to anyone anymore.”

You scribble fiercely on the paper. The pencil leaves little bits of lead behind. If you were in a better state of mind, you could wax poetic about it, but maybe the metaphor is there without needing to describe it. You’re not a burden. I’m glad you’re getting help. And I’m glad you’re still here. As an afterthought, you hastily write, With me.

His smile, soft already, somehow grows even fonder. “Me, too. I’m glad you found me when you did.” He lets out a heavy sigh, and with a dull thud, he rests his head on the table. Carefully, you thread your free hand through his hair. “And…I’m not goin’ anywhere. You’re stuck with me, for better or for worse.”

You don’t need the paper to communicate the breadth of your relief. You rest your head next to his, and he opens his eyes to look into yours. He squeezes your hand tightly, and you return it, digging your fingers into the back of his hand until the skin blanches.