A/N: …Right. This one is just weird. There's kind of a plot, but mostly its this drabble-plot hybrid that gnawed viciously on my brain until it was written down. I'm not sure what to make of it. Have I mentioned that I hate drabbles? It sucks immensely that they appear to be the only thing my brain gives me permission to write. I also hate this fiction with all my heart and soul, but it's the best of my recent shyte. Please flame it, and do it with all the scathing accuracy you can muster. This is just a pathetic, overlong ploy to defend from writer's block.
Warnings are as follows: depression, implied suicide attempts, dubious consent to dubiously-motivated activities, slightly pathetic angst, a lack of plausible explanations, very bizarre it-is-after-three-thirty-and-why-am-I-up writing, and slash. Lots of slash. And there are... other implications. But nothing explicit. I'd give it an older teen manga rating.
The Grave
"Stop this," Wilson said without preamble. Dull, tired blue eyes flickered up to the face that hovered above them, wrapped in darkness like something out of a bad dream. He knew Wilson's voice and his face, but he didn't think he was really there. Didn't think he should be.
"What?" He asked after a moment, voice sluggish and harsh against the echo of his friend's. It sounded like an addict's voice, more of a cough than a cry. Just another symptom.
Wilson knocked the syringe out of his hand with enough force to make his wrist sting. He glanced at it, feeling the pain as a distant tickle, flexing his abused fingers. He watched the ghostly medical device rolling along the floor, silent as the poison in under his skin. "This," Wilson repeated flatly. House looked up at him again because he thought he should do it. He didn't want to though. He didn't want to do anything. He'd grown roots in the darkness, chemicals in his veins turning him into a shadow. He could feel himself melting away.
"Why?" He asked, and he felt so, so tired when Wilson's face wrinkled up in pain, when the hand that had gotten onto his shoulder somehow tightened like the bedside companion of every patient with a death sentence. He looked away. He should have cared at least a little about saying that, should have needed to give it a second thought just to absolve himself of guilt, but he didn't have to. He felt a little annoyed. He didn't want to deal with Wilson and his problems and the incessant caring. A muscle in his hand twitched, responding to the irritation.
That was more than he'd felt in weeks.
"Because the world needs you," Wilson said, so absurdly sincere, completely genuine in his belief that the lie spilling out of his mouth was true. House almost smiled, and his complete disregard must have shown somehow, because Wilson continued on, a little more desperate, "The hospital needs you, your team needs you, Cuddy—" Wilson broke off just to breathe, as though the two processes were so complicated that he couldn't do them at the same time. His voice was lower, more urgent. "I need you."
House didn't bother to look over at him this time, only shook his head. His eyes were slipping shut again, bringing the darkness a little bit closer. He wasn't dying. It wasn't that dramatic. He was just… stopping. It should have made Wilson happy. "I don't need the world," House explained, managing to not sound bitter about it. He couldn't remember what he'd been so bitter about. He almost wished he could feel it again, but the only thing he was now was tired. He could feel his muscles relaxing, oozing away, which was fine, let his useless body atrophy until there was nothing there for people to come to see. Let it all just stop. God, he was so tired.
"I—" Wilson was saying, and again there was that flash of discomfort, of annoyance, of something a little like hatred and House's jaw tightened. Didn't he ever get tired of giving and fixing and putting things back together again? Shouldn't he be so tired he was just a ball curled up in some corner far, far away, not meddling, not being so damned nice? House tasted blood in his mouth, and thought for a moment that he'd bitten his lip out of anger, but his mistake, it was salt, the salt of someone else's mouth on his, their tongue against his own. Breath passed through his lips slowly, muddled, and Wilson seemed to breathe it right out of him. Wilson was kissing him, House realized. A spark of interest, almost, intrigued by this new puzzle, but then it was gone, unable to sustain itself in the crushing blackness, and House was left slumped back against his chair, mouth hanging open a little bit, gazing blankly into the face of his best friend. Wilson's eyes were as soft, as warm as ever. And oh so hurt.
"I love you," he choked into the air between them, close enough that House could taste his breath, might have tried to figure out what he'd eaten for dinner if there was any strength left to think. But that was gone too, tiresome as each breath he had to suck in. Hands, somehow on both his shoulders now, the body they were attached to standing just over where House was sprawled, held on a little tighter. They were a little too warm. "Please—just stop."
House complied, still staring emotionlessly at his friend's face and wondering distantly if he were able feel something what that would have felt like. Wondering what Wilson had been eating to make his lips so salty and how much it was raising his cholesterol. Wondering why his face was shining almost as brightly as his eyes. His mouth, closed at some point, parted again. It was only to breathe, but Wilson must have thought he was going to say something, because he lunged back in, sealing any possible words inside, holding them there with a despondent, empty kiss that felt like a nail in a coffin somewhere, of some little girl's sparkling hopes and dreams. House's eyes, fallen shut as his lips were abused, opened again. Wilson was leaning against him, almost panting, maybe crying, eyes hidden in shadow.
"Idiot," he said, because that word fell off of his lips the most naturally. Wilson flinched, and again at the next words to cross House's lips. "Give up." Wilson's eyes filled with disbelief. He looked almost betrayed, but he shouldn't have been. Obvious was obvious and a good liar, Wilson was not. House's eyes had cemented momentarily to deal their damage, cutting into the fragile place Wilson had thought was so well fortified. Not that Wilson got angry; he just looked sadder. So pathetic. House wished he'd leave. Why wouldn't he leave?
"You knew?" Wilson whispered hoarsely, apparently compelled to state the obvious. His hand shook for a moment, tremors distinct against the stillness of House's skin. Wilson's lips tightened eventually, taking the deep breath that let House know he'd made up his mind, made his decision. When he looked up again that horrible, gooey softness was infused with some steel, like a block of hard candy. No request for House to deny so that he could sink back into the mire. A demand.
"You can't make it matter," House said, just to be cruel, but it didn't accomplish anything. Wilson was tangling their lips with renewed determination, shoving House's head back, clashing their teeth, once or twice drawing some involuntary response from the statue beneath him. He drew back just enough to speak when he'd assured himself that House couldn't. House was flung back, trying to pull himself together again and not really able to do it. Where was he supposed to get the strength from to just keep on chugging?
"Let me try."
They were sharing breath and everything was a little too warm. House's eyes were drooping again, lead weight draped over every fiber of his body. Each breath was labored. Each thought crawled along a little more sluggishly, questions and curiosity long having been eaten away. He just wanted to rest, but maybe more than that, deep down, there was some last glimmer of self-preservation. He eyed Wilson, taking in the determination and the softness, and the tiny tug of galvanizing annoyance he felt just because the man was busily being there. He almost… but maybe… Could he?
…It didn't matter.
He snapped a root, struggling against the poundage dragging his head down, to nod tiredly. "Fine."
That seemed to be the magic word for Wilson because he was pulling away then, taking his warmth with him, looking down at House severely. House looked back and groaned a little bit. "You're not serious." But of course he was; everything about Wilson screamed serious right now. He couldn't have been more serious if he'd shown up on House's doorstep with his hair combed back and a bouquet of red roses. The man shook his head.
"We're not doing this here," he declared, and House suspected it had rather less to do with consideration or, God forbid, romantic ambiance—there wasn't going to be anything romantic about this—and more with the fact that House had been living on that couch for the past few days and it had long since started to go rank. Wilson's ability to make it through the surrounding sea of trash was impressive in and of itself. But Wilson was in his Wonder Boy mode again, and House was too tired to really fight.
"Why not?" He whined, because he always whined that, because it felt natural on his tongue. He could still go through the motions. It didn't work anyway, because Wilson had seized his arms, tugging them up to his shoulders and the attached upper body with them. House acquiesced, holding on, only to let go and drop back immediately when Wilson started to move him upright, moaning. It hurt and he was tired. He just wanted to go away.
Wilson wasn't having any of it. He pulled him up again, and when House refused to hold on, changed tactics, managing to prop his groaning friend upright at least, almost in a sitting position. His hips felt like they were on fire, petrified and stiff. "Get up," Wilson was saying into his ear. "I'll help you, but you've got to stand up."
"It hurts," House found himself telling him, head lolling against Wilson's shoulder, unable to support itself. There was no strength in him left to think of scathing comments or pithy metaphors to get his point across and make it be followed. He was too tired to be clever. That had been the last thing to go. The last part of Gregory House to die. "Leave me alone… I'm tired…"
"I know it hurts," Wilson said, and House felt his lips on the tender skin of his neck, dancing around the shell of its ear. A kiss infused with the belief that House somehow mattered. A stupid liar's kiss. Nothing. "But you need to stand up, House, please. You can do it." House struggled, restlessly trying to shove Wilson away, but the doctor held onto him patiently until the struggles had stopped and he felt House's arms encircling his neck, holding him upright as Wilson pulled him off of the sofa. His body ached antagonistically, and his leg hit the floor too hard, pain pulling a scream out of his throat, muffled into Wilson's shoulder as his friend held him close in an embrace of just-a-little-too-warm. When he felt like he could breathe without crying out again he wanted to tell Wilson to stop, to put him back, but Wilson was already taking the first step back, making House follow. This time his scream echoed in the dark, and instantly Wilson's arms were tight around him, hands rubbing relaxing circles under his shoulder blades until the moans quieted.
"It's too much," House tried to protest, pleading. His leg hurt so, so badly, an eleven on the Goddamn pain scale even with Wilson holding him up, even with such a tiny baby step. They hadn't covered any distance at all. He'd have to take another step, and he wouldn't do it, it was impossible. "It hurts too much. Stop."
But instead Wilson was taking another step, and at House's answering scream, was kissing him again, slow and soothing, like aloe on a rash. House responded to it eagerly, anything to escape the pain pouring through his nervous system, lips careening over lips like ocean waves in a storm. Wilson was stronger, forcing him to slow down, and House could feel calculation in each touch, that attentive nature he knew so well in words. That probably meant he was the girl. He channeled away the pain as his body shook itself apart, until he was sagging helplessly in Wilson's arms, letting Wilson do whatever he wanted because he was too weary to participate.
He whimpered against the kiss without meaning to as it unwound threads of tension down his jaw and his neck and it took two more steps before he was openly sobbing, legs trembling under him, whole body rebelling against too long without food, too long with drugs, too long spent trying to fade away in his living room, trying to turn to stone. Wilson made him step anyway, pushing him when House tried to resist, tears rolling down the sides of his face, dripping out of dead blue eyes, and House found himself propped against something hard and stable, caught between the wall and Wilson's body. He tried to sink down to the floor so he could curl into nothing, sick with exhaustion and an agony that was anything but numb, but Wilson held him in place and upright, kissing him again and again until the trembling was nothing more than his breath hitching, until the pain was manageable. That was bad—it meant the only direction it could go in was worse.
Wilson pulled back and House wouldn't meet his eyes, those eyes filled with so much toxic caring. That tiny part was furious with him for this, for making him prove how weak he was. For not caring when he heard House scream—he cared about everything else. Why couldn't he care about that one thing, the only important thing left, and just leave House here to rest and rot away? Who did he think he was helping? What in the world was he so deluded to think that he could accomplish?! House's eyes narrowed and he almost had an expression on his face, a glare for his tormenter.
"It's alright," Wilson promised in the silence, hands smoothing out the lesser aches spun through House's skin, touch easing them as they'd eased his jaw. He couldn't make them feel better, but he could bring the misery down to a numb sort of neutrality. House couldn't see anything but the floor he was staring at, black as the rest of the room (how did Wilson even know there was a wall there anyway?), but Wilson sounded like he'd still have that earnest, clueless look on his face, like he thought the world actually cared if Gregory House was six feet under or not. He kissed his lips. "You're doing fine." And then: "Only a little more."
"No," House begged, but Wilson was already moving away and his leg was on fire again, burning completely through whatever had been in that syringe. It made every muscle in his body turn to stone, crushed the air out of his lungs, held his scream in place. The step too was bigger than before, and House was quaking again once he made it, practically seizing, drawing himself as close to Wilson as he could manage, clinging to handfuls of his shirt, trying to lever himself off of his leg. He could feel it all so overwhelmingly that the pain folded in on itself, drawing geometric patterns through his molecules, painting the image of what death felt like. Another step and then another. His screams were lodged inside his chest, trapped. His legs crumbled out from underneath him and Wilson grabbed him tightly, pulling him into the too-warm. "Need to rest," House rasped out, even the darkness tilting and swaying. "Passing out."
For once Wilson let him, taking some notice of the fact that he was killing his friend. His friend, who might not have been all the way dead yet. House had wanted to do that person the mercy of an easy, painless death. He'd completely numbed away all life. But Wilson had to make it noble and project his illusions onto it. Wilson had to see him die. He hated the Wilson of that moment, the one who finally let him stop, but knew he didn't really. He didn't feel anything for Wilson. It was only the pain. That was still there.
Wilson put him down with his back on another wall, legs strewn in front of him in a heap, signals so confused that House couldn't tell where one ended and another began. He wanted to rub at the broken one with his hands, howl over it like a dying animal, but he didn't have the courage to with Wilson there to see him do it. Instead he gritted his teeth and gnawed on his lip before Wilson came in again, apparently trying to make up for lost time with as much foreplay as he could possibly get in. He licked away the blood from chapped lips, nudged the teeth apart. His tongue delved deeper into House's mouth until the older man's matte eyes had rolled back into his head, until there was no choice but to kiss back, or else get broken apart by the feeling pushing through. But it wasn't really lust and it certainly had nothing to do with love. It was pure desperation. The last part of House that was still House was begging him. Make this matter to me. And Wilson was trying, and as his desperation hit House's own, alive wherever it had been buried, for a moment he felt.
He could feel the acidic tears on his face with startling clarity for that moment, fog dispelled, could feel the tenderness of Wilson's kiss, so soft it sort of hurt to let it stay soft, soft enough that it was making more tears spill down of their own accord. He could feel how cold he was, skin like ice, and Wilson's hands caressing him like a wounded child, easing warmth inside. He could feel his hatred, the rancor, the mindless loathing of the pain that drove him into insanity. He could feel his own crushing, overwhelming misery, his humiliation, his despair, the jagged pain of an each loathed teardrop multiplied a thousandfold until it crushed even insanity away and there was nothing left to do but stare with dry eyes, sobs trapped like his screams, and want the early grave.
He could feel for that moment, hypersensitive to Wilson's hands gliding across the bare skin of his arms until they reached the sleeves, and then slipped under, travelling up to splay fingers and fingernails over House's collarbone. He could feel himself slowing the kiss, easing the desperation, letting pain come through instead, the lachrymose tears transformed into a dance of flesh. It felt poetic. The hands were skimming over the bottom of his shirt then, delving inside to touch upon the skin of his belly like a shy kiss, warmth almost tangible where his body had cooled so much. Something hot started there and burned its way up, tugging House's hands to Wilson's face to fight back with his own tongue, a new brand of intensity, as the feeling glowed. There wasn't darkness—it was—
And then it was gone. The light flared up, fighting with the bitter black that Wilson had awakened, and House was too tired to fight their war. The feelings slipped away, and it was a relief. House kissed Wilson again as a reward, but that too faded, because the feeling of relief only lasted a split second longer than the rest, and then it was numbed away too.
Wilson pulled back, gasping for air, but his hands stayed under House's shirt, heating up the skin there beneath the fog. If he'd felt any of what House just had, he gave no sign of it, didn't mention the life he'd momentarily breathed back inside. House hated him marginally less for that. "Enough," he panted, pulling House's arms around his neck. For a moment House didn't understand, but then he did and felt tired once more, too tired to keep going. "I said—" House momentarily took his words away, but Wilson wasn't so easily distracted. House had to breathe and once he did, Wilson was speaking again, picked up just where he left off, "—not here."
"Technically," mumbled his friend even as he braced himself to feel his leg tearing itself in two again. Wilson wouldn't listen. He never listened. "You said not over there." He kissed him again, finding the energy to do it from somewhere he didn't even know existed. He felt like Atlas. He didn't know why he was bothering. "I'm good right here."
"Bed," Wilson said firmly. "Come on." House focused on just holding on, letting the rest of him slip away. He listened to his bones creak and pop, listened to pain singing through his nerves, listened to himself crying out. But it was all so far away. He was starting to rest at last. As long as he held on, he could rest, he could stop everything else. He leaned against Wilson, wanting to just be pulled along, but Wilson made him step somehow, said something or did something, House didn't really know how. He seemed to like the way House was screaming. House was still trying to plead his case through the roaring that kept pouring out, but the words didn't really make sense anymore. There was nothing left to speak or cry, it was just his body doing what it remembered. Half-alive. Undead.
Light fell on them from somewhere when they stopped moving, House heaving in huge, insufficient breaths of air, shaking once more in Wilson's grasp. Glazed eyes found Wilson's and found them wet. He couldn't remember why Wilson looked so sad, why he was crying. Wilson was whispering into his ear, "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry," and House didn't know why he was doing that either. He reached up to wipe the tears away and did so, feeling himself tumbling out of the numb again, back into his skin and the despair that came with it. But he did so anyway, consciously, not knowing why, just so he could wipe the tears off of Wilson's face, teeth gritted against the effort it took just to lift his arm. Wilson caught it and didn't let it fall, kissing his fingers individually, reverentially. "I'm sorry," he kept saying, kept breathing against House's skin, kissing his forehead, smoothing aside sweat-soaked hair. "I'm sorry, House."
Wilson crying was neither annoying nor numb. House didn't know what it was, exactly. But it was something because it made him reach out again, twitching fingers just barely avoiding poking him in the eye as they swiped at the tears. The movement was exhausting. Worse was opening his mouth to gasp out, "It's not your fault." He'd had to pretend for so long that he was human, that he was normal, that he had a heart somewhere. He'd pretended so hard that it almost come true, so hard that he'd given away all the pieces of himself, until there was nothing left to be alive. Death was peaceful. It had been so peaceful, not having to pretend, and here he was, going back on the one thing that that had ever saved him from pain—and the only thing it proved was that he no longer cared at all. The lie was acid in his throat. Heaviness dropped onto him with renewed force, left him leaning into Wilson's embrace, wondering how in the world he was still standing. How his body could still hurt so much and not stop. He didn't think he could possibly move again. He gave up.
Wilson pleaded with him and his feet began to move again somehow, shuffling like an old man farther along. The world was reduced to flashes. One step, a railroad spike shoved through his leg. Next step and another. Wilson's words as senseless as his own, Wilson's kiss on a body that couldn't even register the touch, could just barely keep its legs moving, Wilson's eyes in the darkness, mirroring his pain even though he couldn't begin to imagine it. He felt it anyway, but for the living it mattered. House's breathing, endless breathing, his pain, his hands turned to claws, holding onto Wilson for all he was worth. And finally there was softness behind him and he was tipping back, dead eyes falling shut, a puppet with its strings cut. But he was on the bed. There would be no more stepping, no more pain. It was over. Over.
He was crying again, even though he thought his tears, his voice, were long since spent. He was crying huge, shameless, wracking sobs, still clutching Wilson as his leg erupted with new pain, shifted onto the bed with the rest of him. Crying openly into the air of his room that he hadn't seen for days, not caring who knew or who heard, not caring if he heard himself giving up and being as sick as he actually was, not caring at how ugly his voice was against the quiet. His voice was echoing through the grave, and he couldn't even help it. He wasn't sure what he was feeling underneath the numbness, but it wouldn't go away, because sobs just kept coming out, over and over, and Wilson didn't make him be quiet. Wilson pulled the covers over him, cold, unused sheets that made him shiver, and then slipped in next to him, warming them because House couldn't do it himself. He seemed to kiss every part of House that had ever seen the light of day, as if he could kiss away the agony in him, but never his lips. He kissed their corners, his chin, his eyelids, but he left the lips alone to continue to wail relentlessly into the dark of night, battered, broken, and at last, safe.
Eventually the tears halted, reservoirs utterly spent, and not too long after, the dry sobs slowed to a trickle. House became aware of where he was again, of who he was, and felt Wilson there as well, watching him, warmth encircling him. House's eyes stayed shut, unable to open. He was still breathing, and he'd heard himself crying for hours now, so he figured he had enough of himself left to speak. He hadn't given up well enough, because he was trying again. Pretending and lying. Games of the living.
"Go on," he encouraged in his hoarse, coughing voice. "We're here. Go ahead."
When Wilson didn't do anything, he moved his head to the side, moving mountains to do it, to press that clumsy, drunken kiss against Wilson's jaw, trying to summon up reciprocation. After a moment of hesitation Wilson let their lips touch together in a slow, chaste contact, one that House could actually play along with a little bit. He did, pressing back tiredly, hands (still wrapped around Wilson, he noted) playing with the feathery hair around his neck.
He was lost in their little moment, lulled by the warmth and the gentleness therein, but Wilson still wasn't doing much of anything, so House thought he must need still more encouragement—which was stupid, it wasn't like House was going to rescind on his word now. He let one of his hands drag down Wilson's shoulder, over his waist, to his hip, then lower. Promptly, Wilson's hand caught his, threading their fingers together and sandwiching it between the two of them in an innocent, syrupy sweet gesture that reminded House how little this was going to be like the nights spent with bought women, made him uncertain of what to do, and so easily lulled him back into the rhythm of their soothing kiss.
House pulled away first, making it maybe half a centimeter away, but Wilson let him go immediately, at least his head, since they stayed all tangled up in their shared warmth. "Much as I appreciate the sentiment," House ground out around his shuddering breath. "You've only got tonight to…" All of the terms he knew to describe what they were about to do promptly deserted him. Usually coarse was easy but at the moment it was hard, and he finished lamely, "…do whatever you want to me." Wilson shifted uncomfortably at that, and House sighed with what once might have been impatience. "Just get on with it."
For a moment there was only darkness and silence, and then he felt Wilson move, apparently convinced to take action. House thought to himself, finally, just before Wilson kissed not his mouth or his neck, but his cheek; his sunken, unshaven, tear-stained, frankly disgusting cheek, with as much compassion as House figured it was possible to put into a kiss. House's breathing stopped without rhyme or reason, until that kiss was gone, and his cheek was about five times warmer than the rest of him, burning against the ice of a corpse. "I am doing what I want," Wilson murmured petulantly into the quiet, hand cradling the other side of House's face, because it would be unfair to leave it frozen. But he did nothing further except settle around his friend once more, arms pulling him a little closer. House waited and there was still nothing but the sound of Wilson's breathing and their hands caught together between them.
"Don't bullshit me," House said, which managed to sound out-of-place for the moment, something fairly impressive, because the moment was so far out-of-place that it shouldn't even have had a place to be out of. He wanted to open his eyes and glare at Wilson until he broke through the layer of the messiah complex he seemed to be operating under, until he could figure Wilson out again and drag him back to the level of mortal men. That spark of irritation had seized momentary control, washed free of the dark by tears or warmth, or pain. His eyelids were too heavy to budge, though. "You've wanted this for years—almost since we met." Wilson flinched again, damaged. Yes, House had known, and yes, he'd let him suffer. Time to return the favor. "Don't act like this is what you wanted."
"It's…" Wilson began and then broke off, voice cracking on what sounded suspiciously like a sob, only he was perfectly still. His arms tightened around House, regardless of how his friend had just tried to hurt him, regardless of whatever lies were still squirming in the dark. "…It's enough."
House sighed. "No it's not."
He felt Wilson move again, thought he might actually be agreeing, but the only thing Wilson did was bury his face into House's shoulder. House didn't envy that; his shoulder had to be rancid at this point, but Wilson didn't seem to care. He stayed there, warm breath flowing over House's neck, hair tickling his ear. "You're here," Wilson said brokenly. "You're alive, you're…" House felt him sob this time, heard his voice crack over the words in his mouth. "It's enough."
The darkness stayed undisturbed in House's closed eyes, and the room returned to silence except for the sound of their breathing. Pain and warmth took turns pulsing through House's skin, took turns ruling his body until Wilson squeezed his hand ever so slightly. "House," he called softly, as though he was afraid his friend was asleep and he might wake him. House's head turned away. "Why are you… crying? Is it hurting again?"
The sobs, gentle as butterfly wings at first, now made his chest contract, made him try to bury his head as deep and as far away from James Wilson as possible. Wilson turned his head back to face him though, always concerned, always caring, and endlessly strong. "You idiot," House scolded him, and then the first sob hit in earnest, entire body jerking in his friend's arms, and he was crying all over again. The darkness melted, he melted, everything but that stupidly kind warmth and its stupidly kind lie just went away and he tried to cry away the feeling inside of him, or the poison he'd put there to kill them, or the exhaustion that had nearly drowned him to death. The room was flooding with them. He didn't know where the tears were coming from. Nothing could possibly change in absolute misery, he hadn't felt it change, but when he fell asleep it wasn't a stupor and it wasn't death. And somehow he knew that Wilson was still there, holding him tightly as the sobs died away. Twice more he woke up, feverish from pain and withdrawal and nightmares, and Wilson was still there, still holding him, holding him together like he always did.
Saving him from the pain.
When he woke the next time there was sun on his face, pushing against his eyelids, and still, warm, solid protection around him. He was bone-weary and felt disgusting. His leg was on fire, his heart was breaking, and he hated the world. The darkness was there, bringing its numbness with it and the endless moaning of tiredness. But he could feel, unearthed at some point from the shadows, a hushed, hesitant beat. A tiny glimmer. Maybe one that might actually survive.
"…Wilson…"
No symptom, but a voice.
Wilson, who hadn't realized he was awake, twitched slightly, head lifting off of the shoulder it had cut the circulation off from. House's circulatory system thanked him. The rest was protesting the missing warmth. "…Yeah?"
"Night's over." The arms around him stiffened, and House blundered on heedlessly, more to the point. "You missed your chance."
Not much of a chance, but the only one you were going to get.
You passed it up.
What does that mean?
"Oh," Wilson said, and slowly, reluctantly it seemed, his arms began to unwind from his friend. The warmth was leaving, the feeling of breath and heartbeats that matched his own. No stray touch, no gentle caress—Wilson was a man of his word. Back to being polite and reserved and quietly hopeless, because he knew he'd failed. "Sorry… I'll…" Desperation in his voice, on his face, even with House's eyes shut. Not so much a man of his word as House had thought. Not going to leave him, even if he demanded it. "I'll go get you some water—"
If you weren't going to do it, then why?
Tell me what that means.
House caught his hand before it could escape, feebleness of his arm be damned. A pulse danced beneath his fingers, warmth threading all the way up his arm, making it stronger than it really was. Wilson's breathing against the silence, his silent waiting. And House's eyes finally opened, hard, blue, and brilliant against his face. Awake. He watched the look of wonder spread over Wilson's face. Watched him caring more for the fact that House was alive than for the fact that he himself had been to hell and maybe hadn't come all the way back. He watched Wilson beam at him, and stared straight into those soft, caring brown eyes with his own, risen from the grave.
Looked into those eyes, and felt his own heart beating again, holding its own against the dark.
I know what it means.
"Thank you," he said quietly, gripping the hand as tightly as his muscles would allow. "It matters."