A/N -
Moving On
Angst/Supernatural/Hurt-Comfort
Major Character death, sort of.
It's different, so let me know if you like it.
Implied Huddy. Sort of.
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Moving On
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~ The End Is Just Another End's Beginning ~
The streets were slick in the aftermath of the recent storm. Low, pregnant clouds still hung in the sky, threatening to rupture at any moment. The dull, orange security lights had flickered on in the parking lot, the oily puddles that had formed reflecting the dirty light.
The smell of the recent rain hung in the air. Greg House and James Wilson stepped out of the cool, dry hospital air conditioning into the muggy, oppressive humid air. House sniffed the thick air, then snorted. Wilson unbuttoned his sleeves, rolling them up past his elbows. "The streets are wet," he commented.
House shot him a "duh" look. "Thanks, Captain Obvious," he shot at the younger doctor. He turned his head back to the parking lot. His orange bike was coated in water; he knew he should have parked it in the underground lot. Actually, he shouldn't have rode it at all, but the weather that morning had been so nice. It was a good feeling, riding that damn bike. It was dangerous. It made him feel alive.
The two doctors walked over to it, and House reached out and brushed the beads of water off the leather seat. Wilson heard him give an irritated hmmf. "You want a ride home?" he asked. The least of his worries was his friend having a wet ass. It was growing dark after a long day, and the pavement was wet and slick. House was tired and emotionally drained. He was still coming to terms with their boss' engagement, so he was literally throwing himself into his work.
The older doctor shook his graying head. "Nope. I'll be fine," he informed Wilson gruffly, straddling the bike. "Besides, Sam's probably home waiting on you." He looked at the younger doctor. "Go, get some. One of us should be enjoying the wonders of the opposite sex. Since you're the only one with a girlfriend..." he trailed off, putting the bike in neutral and starting it up.
Wilson nodded. "Look, give me a call when you get home, okay. It looks like it's going to rain, and I want don't want to know if they'll be scraping your sorry carcass off the pavement somewhere." He meant it as a joke, and House gave him a weak grin. "Be safe," the younger doctor intoned, worry and sincerity ringing in his voice like a clear bell.
House sneered, pulling on his black helmet. He'd foregone the leather coat due to the heat. "Yes, mom," he snarked, opening the throttle on the bike. He walked it backward out of the spot, then he shifted gears, pulling out into the darkening night.
Wilson stood on the curb, watching as his friend riding away. He'll be fine, he told himself as he turned and walked the opposite direction to his own car. He couldn't place the anxiety that filled his gut, but he tried to stifle it. I really need a break, he thought, pulling the keys to his Volvo out of his pants pocket. He thought about talking to Sam about a possible vacation. Cuddy had been harassing him about using up his vacation time.
It had been a long year. Between House being in rehab, then moving in with him. His own struggles between his friend and his own life. Them both moving on. He'd watched his friend struggle with their boss and friend moving on herself, and House hadn't dealt with that very well.
They loved each other. They were just too stubborn and pig headed to see that. He thought, that after the year and especially the recent events of the crane accident, that they would see that, but, no. Cuddy had moved on with her engagement, and House drifted even farther to the edge.
Wilson shivered involuntarily. House had been having a rough time after the loss of Hanna. He'd done everything right, and she still had died. It was tough, seeing House second guess himself at every move. He had thought he'd lost his mojo after Kutner died, but now, it was apparent to Wilson that House had really lost his mojo, along with his will. He was a tall, limping shadow haunting the hallways of Princeton-Plainsboro now, not the overly confident, arrogant ass he usually had been.
Wilson arrived at his beige sedan, chewing his lip in thought. He slid into the pale leather driver's seat, and he slid the key into the ignition. He hoped that House would find his way, but he wasn't overly optimistic about it. Maybe, he'd treat his friend to a guys night out at a Phillies game this weekend. Guys don't talk about stuff like women did, but maybe, he could show House that he cared without breaking the guy code.
He reached into the pocket of his slacks, and he pulled out his cell. He'd give House an hour before he tried to call. Not that House would answer it, but he'd at least try to see if the cranky doctor was able to get home alright.
At that thought, a bright fork of lightening streaked across the sky, followed by a loud rumble of thunder. He paused as he began to put the car in gear. He had to wonder it that was just bad timing, or something a lot more ominous. Shaking of the feeling of foreboding, he put the car in reverse, then, as he left the parking lot, the heavens opened up, releasing their contents on the earth.
House took it easy through the city streets, watching his turns. He didn't go straight home, preferring to wander the wet streets of Princeton. He was tired, both mentally and physically. His physical wounds from the night of the collapse had headed, but the mental and emotional ones, those would take a good bit longer. Some how, he knew that they would always ooze and seep, not healing over at all.
His nose and the place where his neck joined his shoulder had fresh scars, red and raw, from his ordeal underneath the building. The shoulder wound still throbbed, an echo of the pain of losing his last patient. His neck was often stiff, and it hurt to move it or his shoulder. It wasn't as bad as his leg pain, but it was something.
He thought about going back to his shrink, but he decided not to. He'd worked so hard all year to be happy, and while his friends were becoming content with their lives, he was still stuck with being miserable. He was in an ever deepening rut, and the faster he spun his tires, the deeper he went down. The problem was, he didn't know if he had the strength to get out of it.
Thunder echoed from overhead, and it had rained on him for most of his ride. The drops stung like hell as they hit him, but he relished the pain. The physical pain of the ride was much better than the emotional pain of his mind. Even when it poured, he was still fine with the hurt. Nothing could hurt as bad as he did internally. Ever.
He was soaked as he road by her new house. He hadn't even realized he had rode that far, or in that general direction. He paused in front of the building. It was a loft, similar to Wilson's new one. He pulled off the road, parking on the curb across the street, watching. He saw them as they piled out of her car. Lucas was driving, and she scrambled out of the passenger's seat, slamming that door as she opened the back door. She unbuckled Rachel as Lucas ran around the vehicle with an umbrella. The rain came down in sheets as the happy couple rushed to the door. He felt sick as he watched Lucas draw her close to him before they entered, planting a soft kiss on her lips, then kissing Rachel's forehead. Then, they disappeared into the old, gray stone building.
He felt something deep within him die. He swallowed the lump in his throat, and he closed his eyes. He'd lost something precious, and he knew he was never going to get it back. It wasn't until much later, he realized that since he had his helmet on, his cheeks weren't wet from the rain.
He rode on down the road, his emotions sapped. Her lengthy speech the night of the crane collapse about how she didn't love him rang in his ears, but it didn't hurt any less. In fact, it hurt more; something that he didn't believe was possible. He felt like his heart and soul had been pulled out of his chest, then replaced with an acid that was eating him alive.
He hurt, aching with betrayal and rejection. He pulled out on to the streets, the weather seeming to match his dark mood. The rain fell harder, pelting him. His clothes were soaked, clinging to his body like a wetsuit, and he felt like he was drenched to his very core. If he was lucky, he'd come down with pneumonia and die. At least that would put him out of his misery.
He stopped at a stoplight on his way back to his apartment, so he sat up. He shoulders and back were aching from the position he rode in on the bike. He rolled his neck and neck and shoulders while stretching his back, working out the kinks. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a youngish adult. She stood out, her hair dyed black with neon green tips. The tips matched her t-shirt and tights, and the black hair matched her skirt and combat boots. Her bright emerald eyes stared at him from the curb; he could see their color from where he sat, so he tilted his head and blinked. He heard a horn honk, and he glanced up; the light was still red. When he turned back to look at the girl, she was gone.
A strong feeling of anxiety welled up in him, almost replacing the misery he had been wallowing in. He blinked again, several times, then shook his head. He must have been imagining things. It wouldn't have been the first time he had saw things that wasn't there. He turned his attention back toward traffic. He thought about going home and crawling into a bottle. He knew that if he did, he might not ever crawl out, but he didn't care. He was tired of hurting.
He sped down the streets, taking a few more risks than necessary. He was a few blocks away from his apartment, and he took the turn. As he turned, more sharply than he had intended, his back tire skidded on a puddle of water. He hit the brakes, the tires squealing as he nearly lost control of the bike. He pulled over to the curb, his heart thudding hard in his chest. He'd had bike accidents before, and the adrenaline surge he was feeling now raised his anxiety level that much more. He sat on the leather seat, in the pouring rain, trying to regain control of his surging emotions.
Once he felt his heartbeat return to somewhat normal, he started up the bike again, shaking off the distress of almost crashing his bike again. He pulled back out into the road, ready to get home, get dry, and get drunk.
It was too bad he didn't see the truck coming up too fast from behind him. There was an impact, the sound of metal crunching, pain, then, nothing. He was deliciously numb. He couldn't move at all, but he notice his vision fading to black. The last thing he saw were two bright green eyes, burning into his.
Wilson's phone rang around 11pm. He was in bed, snuggled up with Sam. Thinking it was House, he rolled over, and he picked up the phone. "Wilson," a heavily accented voice asked.
"Yeah, Chase. What's up?" He blinked, looking at the bright green numbers on the clock. It was nearing 11 pm.
"There's been an accident," Chase began. "A motorcycle accident." Wilson felt the bottom fall out of his stomach. There was a long, pregnant pause. It's House.