Title: Seldom Seen Kid
Pairing: House/Wilson friendship, sort of pre-slash depending on how you want to interpret certain areas.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Wilson's lost without House around all the time. Set during the beginning of season 6.
Warnings: Major spoilers for seasons 5 along with minor spoilers for the season 6 premiere.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never was, never will be. If I did own House, those college loans would finally get paid off. The title comes from the song Grounds For Divorce,which belongs to Elbow.
Author's Note: Decided to try my hand at 2nd person again after Circadian Rhythm got good reviews. Inspiration for the fic first started with this line from the song: Mondays is for drinking to the seldom seen kid. The setup is a little disjointed but I intended it to be that way.
I ended up basing this fic off of the brief scene between House and Wilson in the season 6 promo. Thank you to my two betas for this story, for looking this over and helping me improve certain areas. It was very much appreciated.
Apart
It's a Monday. And it's raining.
You're sitting on the couch in House's apartment, staring blankly at the wall behind his piano. A half-filled glass of scotch dangles from your fingers. The ice melted many minutes ago, watered down to the point where you find it almost unbearable to 's not that late, but the darkened sky makes it hard to see. The single lamp sitting on the end table is the only light you've turned on.
It's been two weeks since you stood in the middle of the driveway and watched House disappear behind a door leading into Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital. It's only been two weeks since House looked back at you with eyes filled with so much sadness you'd almost started crying right then.
But you didn't. And you still haven't. You rarely cry. The last time you cried was…
You gulp down more scotch and ignore the tightening in your chest.
You start violently when your phone begins vibrating, skittering across the coffee table. The glowing screen flashes the word "UNKNOWN" at you. You vaguely notice that your hand is shaking as you reach for the phone and fumble to accept the call. Normally you'd never answer an unknown ID, but this time it feels different.
You're compelled to answer based on the fact that you believe one of your worst fears may suddenly be coming true.
"Hello?"
"Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital. Please hold," a professional sounding female voice replies before abruptly cutting off with a click.
You swear you stop breathing for a second before the thrum of blood rushing past your ears whites out all else.
Mayfield. Only one person resides there that you know. Why now though? Why call at this moment?
Then you hear the soft huff of breathing on the other end and flinch as you try to snap yourself out of your stupor.
"House?" You question, knowing that disbelief colors your tone.
"Yes. How many other friends do you have in the asylum?"
Oh God.
The question is so House, said by him in that sarcastic tone you know so well. You want to laugh. But you also want to cry.
It hits you full force how much you miss him. After you left last year, how had you survived without House? How had you been able to function without him constantly close by? You can barely hold yourself together right now.
You end up choking out a weird stifled laugh and press the phone harder to your ear. It's not until then that you realize you're now standing and rubbing your right hand vigorously over the back of your neck.
"How…how are you doing?"
House sighs and there's a muffled squeak as if he's scuffing his shoes against the floor.
"As well as could be expected," he finally responds.
You're surprised by the truthfulness of his answer. And in a way, you're saddened by it. That phrase does not sound like House.
You start pacing. Walk toward the piano. Abrupt turn. Back to the couch. Return to the piano. Just like an uneasy dance.
One. Two. Three. Turn. One. Two. Three.
"That's…good," you answer lamely, slapping your hand back down to your side. "How's…"
You gesture in the air with your hand, though you know House can't see you. And despite your lack of a question, House seems to intuit what you're asking.
"Meds are tolerable," House responds, his voice a bland monotone, as if he's talking about another patient and not himself. "No Vicodin allowed. Nice combination of other pills though."
You can tell, just by his tone, that House doesn't want to talk about it anymore. So you go against your nature and pull back. You've wanted to talk to House for the past two weeks and you're not going to ruin this first opportunity.
"Meet anyone interesting?" You quip lightly, jumping on to a new course of discussion. Your fingertips brush against the smooth surface of the piano as you pace by it.
"Some of the nurses are hot."
"Of course you, of all people, would take notice of that fact," you retort. You're enjoying the banter.
"Hey, don't blame me!" House exclaims while trying to sound affronted. "Do you really think I have anything to do around here except watch people and comment on if they're hot or not? It's not exactly an amusement park here, Wilson."
"No after school activities?" You've reached House's door again and bump it with your hand as you turn away.
House scoffs.
"Unless you count arts and crafts."
"I was always partial to drawing," you add dryly. You want the teasing to go on forever. Because you've missed this more than you'll ever admit out loud.
"Because any mistake you made could be erased and redone," House states.
It's not a question. He knows you too well.
"Something like that," you reply quietly. You've started to rub the back of your neck again and now you're circling the couch.
The conversation has gone back to being serious and you fall silent, listening to House's soft breathing on the other end. It's comforting and reassures you that he's alive.
"You know," House interrupts through the silence. "They have this thing called visiting hours here…"
You smile slowly and halt your relentless pacing for the first time since this conversation started.
"I know, House."
There's a long pause. You begin to think maybe the call has been disconnected and you just didn't realize it.
"Good," House says at last, voice very low. "I'm not doing anything this weekend."
And you know that there's an invitation in his words. But you also know that House can't outright ask for you to visit. This is the only way House knows how to go about making his wishes known. It hurts to know that he can't even be forthright with you. And you have to lower yourself to the couch because your legs are beginning to tremble.
"Well, I am now," you manage to get out.
House doesn't answer, but you hear the distant sound of someone else speaking. House obviously has his hand over the mouthpiece because you can't understand his response to the other person. But you can distinctively make out his irritated tone.
"Gotta go, Wilson," he suddenly declares. "Management has their panties in a twist. Apparently I've used up all my minutes."
Already? Hadn't they just started this exchange?
"Oh. Okay. Well…um." You stutter to a stop, not really sure what to say next.
"Make sure your GPS is working. I'd hate for you to get lost and then I'd have to cry to my doctor about how my friend is ignoring me and can't keep his promises."
You have to smile at that.
"Sure thing, House. I wouldn't want to inconvenience you."
There's another string of jumbled words from House's end of the line and you hear House let out a childish whine of discontent. You're fairly sure the words "but mom" were in there somewhere.
It reminds you of the way House will speak to either you or Cuddy at the hospital when he's not getting his way.
Your throat goes tight because that playfulness has been absent from the hospital since House left. If you're being absolutely truthful right now, you'd say it had been missing long before that.
"House…" You're trying to get his attention back to you.
"Bye, Wilson. Don't drink all my scotch. Or I'll make you buy me a whole case."
The phone line goes dead and you let out an unbidden snort of amazement. House is House. Nothing will ever change that fact. And you don't actually want anything to change.
Somehow House knows you're staying at his place. Somehow he knows that since you can't actually be with him, this is the closest you're able to be to him currently. Being here, in his apartment, surrounded by all his possessions, you feel safe. You feel like you're home, which is something Amber's apartment stopped feeling like long ago.
Yet you know something is missing. You know that the apartment doesn't seem right. There's a hole. And you didn't realize how much it would affect you until House was suddenly gone.
**
Alone
In the end, it's the similarities between House and Danny that get to you the most.
You storm out of New York Mercy Hospital and immediately your fist hits the brick wall. You feel tears leaking out of your eyes against your will and desperately try to blink them away. You've failed them both in more ways than you can count and you hate yourself for what you've done.
You want to curl up in a ball and cry until you have no tears left. But you're in public and you need to leave before you create a scene. As it is, a few other visitors are eyeing you with alarm.
You walk quickly to your car and slump in the seat, your hands wrapping loosely around the steering wheel. The knuckles of your left hand are scraped and bleeding. Rummaging through your bag, you pull out some band-aids and cover the wounds. Your hand aches but you could care less. You deserve the pain after causing so much pain to those around you.
Your visit with Danny had not gone well. You'd made the trip because for some reason you'd felt the need to go see your brother again before venturing out to visit House.
Maybe it was because you felt having this visit go well meant the one with House would, too.
But though Danny may be more coherent now, filled up to his eyebrows in pills, he'd been no happier to see you than he was that first time. You hardly know who he is anymore. You're nothing but strangers who happen to share DNA.
You wish House had been with you. House, with all his unique qualities, had been amazingly supportive that day. He'd sat in that sterile, jail-like waiting room, drinking lukewarm coffee and talking about his patient like usual. And then, when he'd returned the following week with you to actually meet Danny, he'd kept himself in check. House had been genuinely pleasant, patiently listening while you struggled to find an interesting topic to capture Danny's attention. Anything to penetrate the drugged haze of his mind and persuade him to respond to you in full sentences.
But this time you'd been alone. There had been no House as a buffer to filter out all of Danny's accusations about abandonment and how you'd never really appreciated him when he had been around. With House there, Danny hadn't even brought those issues up to you, but they had spilled out like rapid-fire this time.
And you hadn't been able to stop any of his words. Because you'd been so preoccupied in thinking about House in Mayfield that the rant had begun before you realized it. By then you'd just felt so bewildered and hurt that you took the verbal beating silently. Danny's words may be harsh, but in the end, he was right. It was entirely your fault. You're the one who hurt him, the one who caused his downward spiral that landed him in this hospital.
As you'd begun to shake with suppressed emotions, your mind reeling, you'd then made a desperate grab to stop Danny's tirade. You didn't even get a chance to touch him before he started screaming nonsense at you. Your visit was brought to an abrupt halt as several nurses rushed in to restrain your brother. An orderly had firmly escorted you to the door and not once did your shaking cease.
That was when your fist had met the wall.
You close your eyes and rub your fingers furiously across them, until bright spots bloom behind your eyelids. You need to leave because you feel as if you're suffocating even located in your car outside the hospital.
As you put the car in drive and head back to New Jersey, you replay sections of the conversation between you and your brother over and over in your head. It's like a broken record that keeps sticking on the worst parts.
"I…I screwed up, Danny. I let my friend down. Just like I let down you."
Danny is silent. He's slouched over in his seat with his arms loosely hugging his torso. His eyes remain fixed on the wall behind you, not seeming to be focused on you or your words. You decide to keep speaking though.
"And now…now he's being cared for like you."
This sentence invokes a small response from Danny. His gaze tracks over until his eyes meet yours.
"You always did blame yourself," he finally says. His voice is very low, but you understood him.
"But I…" You try to interrupt.
"It's not always about you," he finishes. He breaks eye contact and resumes his fascination with the wall.
It seemed like a stranger had been staring back at you. A stranger who resembled you, but only put up with you because he didn't have a choice. And there was nothing better to do while locked up in the psych ward.
You blame yourself for that. You blame yourself for Danny and House. Because if you hadn't hung up on your brother when he needed you then he wouldn't have disappeared for years. And if you hadn't walked away from House then maybe he never would have had to enter Mayfield.
Guilt compels you to want to fix everyone. But loving them is why you end up hurting them.
You're a curse to everyone you know. At least it seems to be that way. You keep doing things that cause you to lose the people you care about the most.
And now you're losing House.
But you can't lose him. Because he's the most important person in your life and being without him is…
You can't even finish that thought.
A few hours later, you walk into House's apartment on autopilot and make your way to his bedroom. You don't even bother to change into pajamas, only crawling on top of the covers, hoping to shut out the world.
Your visit with Danny did nothing but cause you more sadness. It did nothing more than prove that you really don't know your brother at all. And that he knows you even less.
You need House. He wouldn't comfort you; House wasn't one to offer a shoulder to cry on. Nor was he one to offer empty platitudes. House would only have offered you the brutal truth. At least there would have been alcohol and food, plus his company to go along with that truth. And you need all those things right now. But instead, you're sitting in your best friend's apartment and longing for him to be with you.
You tug House's pillow toward you and wrap your arms around it. You breathe in his scent which still clings onto the fabric. A flood of tears fill your eyes and you bite back a sob that threatens to break from your throat.
You cry silently into House's pillow and wish that he was here.
**
Together
Walking into Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital three weeks after dropping House off here is a bizarre experience. You can see the scene from that day flashing before your eyes, and the large range of emotions rush back as well.
And here you are again. Only this time it's different. House is now the patient and you are nothing more than a visitor.
The outside has this old, castle-like quality to it, but the inside is incredibly modern, with shiny equipment and harsh fluorescent lights. The halls seem to go on for miles. You sign-in at a desk directly beyond the entrance. The nurse smiles brightly at you. You have the impression she looks forward to seeing visitors versus patients all the time. You give a weak smile back and 'Melissa,' as her nametag says, blushes furiously.
You curb the urge to roll your eyes.
An orderly gestures for you to follow him and he leads you down a long hallway with ugly tile floors. Green and blue and cream. Ugh. It reminds you of your high school.
You're trying to think of anything but where you'll eventually end up. The closer you get to your destination, the more nervous you find yourself becoming. You start breathing more rapidly and your hands start sweating. Thank God the orderly is several steps ahead of you and therefore can't witness your personal panic attack.
How much is different now? How different is House now? What has changed? Will it be like your visits with Danny? Will House be nothing more than a stranger who tolerates your presence?
A small line of patients passes you going the other way, two orderlies watching them closely. Each face of the patients looks so…blank. And you're scared that when you see House he'll have the same expression in his eyes.
Not all change is bad. But not all change is good either.
The orderly finally stops walking and waves you into a room on the right side of the hall. You pause on the threshold and inhale loudly before letting the air in your lungs back out. The other man raises an eyebrow at you but doesn't say anything. You're grateful.
"Wilson."
The sound of your name being called by him forces you to walk farther into the room and finally take notice of your surroundings. And you realize you've missed the way he says your name.
House is sitting at a table by one of the windows. He's dressed in one of his many band t-shirts, loose pajama pants, and his customary sneakers. His hair has been cut shorter than you've ever seen it and he also looks like he's gained a bit of weight. But he's still House and you can suddenly breathe a little easier.
The table he's at is covered with random art supplies; crayons, paper, clay, markers. House seems to be currently forming an anatomically correct heart out of red molding clay. Another patient sits at the table and is staring with rapt attention.
House is abandoning his creation though and is struggling to stand up without a cane. Normally you'd be rushing over to help him or fretting about him hurting himself.
But you're too fixated by the smile on his face as he starts to limp toward you.
"Hey, House," you say quietly, struggling not to grab him and hug him. You'd never let go.
He smirks and halts a couple of feet from you.
"How's life in the real world? Do you know they won't let me watch cable here? Now I'll never know if Simone told Drake that the twins were his brother's and not his!"
You laugh. Hard.
And you know everything is going to be okay.