Damage
by Your Undoing
Summary: Had he meant for this to happen? Had he considered their reactions as he swallowed that final pill?
Author's Note: I was sitting around one day and ended up wondering about how each character would react to the deaths of various other characters. I never got around to writing the multi-chapter drivel series based on that idea, but I did end up writing this thing. It's the result of much writer's block regarding Personal, and procrastination on homework. Anyway, I should probably let you read it. As always, reviews are appreciated!
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James Wilson stared abysmally at the television. His face was resting in his hands, his elbows perched lazily on his knees.
The television wasn't even on.
After finally mustering up the energy to move, he slumped over and lay down on the couch. Grasping blindly around on the little table next to it, his eyes crinkled with the shadow of a smile when his fingers met with the familiar laminated feel of the cover of MD Monthly.
He read for a while, squinting in the poor light of the hotel room. Slowly, he felt himself relax. It had been another crappy day at the hospital. Delivering the bad news to Alicia was enough, but then that Evan Linus character had marched in and demanded an obscene amount of money… something about the MRI machine and a pin…
He sighed. Forget about it, James. Forget aaaaaall about it.
Brrrrrrrrring. Wilson groaned and tossed the magazine onto the floor. He rubbed his eyes and pulled himself into a sitting position, then hopped up and hurried across the room.
He caught it halfway through the last ring.
"Hello," he said lightly.
Silence. What sounded like gasping.
"Uh, hello?" he asked, raising his voice.
More gasping. Wilson realized the person was crying.
"…Alicia?" he asked lamely.
"Who's Alicia?" a voice asked thickly. Wilson recognized it immediately-- Cuddy.
"A patient," he explained quickly, "but Cuddy, what's going on?"
This reminder of her apparent dismay sent Cuddy back into hysterics. Wilson clutched the counter with white knuckles, his heart beating loudly in his ears.
"I—have to t-tell you something," she said in between gulping sobs.
"Okay," Wilson said nervously. He moved back to the couch and sat down, staring at his pale face reflected on the television screen.
"It's—" she broke off, her voice cracking; "it's Greg. House. He's—oh my god, Wilson."
The phone line crackled unpleasantly as she lost control of her vocal chords once more. Wilson sat numbly on the couch, not allowing himself to make any assumptions or connections without getting all of the facts. He couldn't stop a large lump from forming in his throat.
"Lisa," he said in what he hoped was a sympathetic voice. "I can barely understand you. Please don't keep me hanging like this. What happened?"
Gasping. A few deep breaths punctuated by sobs.
"He overdosed," she was barely able to whisper.
It felt as though someone had punched Wilson in the gut. No, punched wasn't the right word. It felt as though someone had just shot him in the face.
"We—everything we could, it—there was nothing—it was—he's g-gone," she cried, barely able to whisper the last words.
He was falling. He couldn't see a thing, and something much heavier and hotter than air was pressing in on him from all sides. This couldn't possibly be happening. Not at all. Not ever.
"I don't understand," he managed to choke out. He held the phone in a numb hand. He couldn't even remember who he was talking to.
"Please come," she whispered.
"Y-yeah," he stuttered numbly. "Right."
He felt as though he was moving in slow motion. Suddenly he realized he was standing, the phone lying on the floor. He didn't remember dropping it.
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They all said that Doctor Gregory House had never deserved a friendship with Doctor James Wilson.
But.
The fact was that though House was quite clearly damaged and past the point of salvation, Wilson wasn't in any better shape. Most simply couldn't tell. Wilson had a nice smile and a good look about him—he was good with patients, he was respectful to his superiors and inferiors, and, most importantly, he somehow maintained a good attitude with that awful doctor with the cane.
Wilson was broken. Totally, utterly. Damaged. Beyond the point of salvation. He may not wear it on his sleeve like House, but it was there. The pain.
He was alone. Without a family or a wife, and with only one friend. House may not have made for the best moral support, but he was all Wilson had. And when that's the case, you find it hard to let go. You forgive them for their mistakes, as horrible as they may be. Because you don't want to be alone.
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She was standing alone, a solitary figure beneath a streetlight in the parking lot; glowing as if in a spotlight. Her sweater was soaked through to the skin. Hair plastered to her neck and shoulders. Rain trickled down her face, and it was impossible to separate it from the tears.
Wilson didn't say anything. He didn't need to. Perhaps he wouldn't have been able to.
She clung to him tightly, burying her face in the folds of his jacket. He felt her trembling beneath his hands, and held her tighter with shaking hands of his own.
He didn't know how long Cuddy had been waiting for him under that streetlight. He didn't know how long he had been standing there with her, only that now the rain had soaked him, too. Neither of them wanted to be the one to let go.
Finally, he felt her breath against his neck as she began to whisper.
"We were the only ones."
He pulled away slightly, placing his hands on her shoulders.
"Only ones who what?"
She sniffled softly. "Who knew him."
"Lots of people knew him," he said quietly. "He had… quite a reputation. Foreman, Chase, Cameron—they all knew him too."
Cuddy shook her head. She made a noise that may have been a laugh—it could have been a sob.
"No. They associated with him because they had to."
Wilson stared dimly out at the empty parking lot behind her shoulder. The hospital, beyond it. Somewhere inside was the body of Gregory House. Staring unseeing at the underside of a white sheet. Or perhaps the black interior of a body bag.
He jerked his eyes back to her face.
"Didn't you associate with him because you had to?" he asked, fighting the morbid urge to stare up at the hospital again, wonder whether House was in the morgue yet; were they doing an autopsy? With the muscles in his face finally relaxed, would he be frowning or smiling? Wilson realized he was staring, and he was wondering, and he jerked his head back to Cuddy once more.
She gave a watery laugh. "I could have fired House any time I wanted and no one would have ever questioned my reasoning. Some people say I'm an idiot for letting him within 100 feet of the hospital."
Wilson nodded, smiling weakly. "But you did."
"I did," she repeated, wiping her eyes with slightly unsteady fingers.
"We should go inside," he said slowly, turning his head up to face the rain.
She glanced up but shook her head firmly. "I don't—I don't want to go back in there, please," she whispered, her expression pleading.
"I have to see him," Wilson said softly, looking back over Cuddy's shoulder at the yellow rectangles that he knew were the doors to the hospital.
"No," she begged, grasping his arm, "you don't need to see him like that. Don't let that be your--" she paused, putting a hand over her mouth and closing her eyes. She took a shuddering breath, then continued; "don't let that be your last memory of him."
Wilson bit his lip. He stared at her, looking ever so pathetic in her soaking sweater and dripping mascara, then back at the hospital.
"What should my last memory be, then?" he said with a frown, shaking his head. "He was an ass."
Cuddy smiled faintly, her eyes glittering through the dark like stars.
"But you loved him for it," she said softly.
Wilson raised his eyebrows. Had he?
"Yeah," he said slowly. "Yeah, I guess I did."
Cuddy nodded silently, screwing up her face with what could only be a suppressed sob.
"Me too."
Wilson put his arm around her gently and steered her over to his car. She got into the passenger side without a word.
"I'll take you home," Wilson said as he slid into the driver's seat. Cuddy nodded again, staring blankly out the window.
They drove in near silence. Wilson tried to block out the sound of Cuddy's uneven breathing, thinking instead of what House would think if he saw them like this. Had he meant for this to happen? Had he considered their reactions as he swallowed that final pill?
"I'll miss him," Cuddy said quietly.
Wilson blinked rapidly, trying to ignore the burning sensation behind his eyes.
"Me too."