Screw-Up
Disclaimer: House M.D. belongs to David shore et al. If I owned it, House and Wilson would be together by now and Sam Carr would be history.
A/N: This is my version of how House got the bruise on his arm. This is a one-shot and only a one-shot. Nothing but angst here folks 'cause right now TPTB have made it the name of the game!
Spoiler Alert: This one-shot is based on S. 6, Ep. 21 "Baggage". If you haven't seen this episode or any of Season 6 yet, do not read this until you have. You've been warned.
Warning: This fic is H/W pre-slash. If you don't like or agree with slash, don't read.
Rating: This is rated T for violence, language and adult themes.
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He sat alone in his apartment. His stuff was back, the remnants of his life Before. Perhaps it would be the end of his life After. He really wasn't sure. So many memories. Some good ones. Mostly they were bad ones, though. The bad ones ruled his mind as he threw back the last of the harsh amber liquor and set the glass down onto the coffee table that had cost him a small fortune to buy back from the pawn shop Alvie had hawked it to. Alvie. Moving in with his cousin in Arizona, free of the fear of immigration because of him. He had helped the young Puerto Rican so he could remain with him and keep him company now that everyone else had deserted him—then Alvie walked away too. Perhaps it was for the best. He'd be happier with his cousin than he would have been with him.
House had been working so hard, hoping that if he did all the right things and stayed away from the drugs, he would find the happiness he'd yearned for his entire life. He really had believed it, at first. It all had been a lie.
The only truth was what was and what had been. Hope was for fools, and he'd been a fool and been played like a fool too long. Truth was the alcohol and drugs. Truth was Wilson and Sam. Truth was Cuddy and Lucas. Truth was the endless pain. Truth was that he was alone, and always would be. Everything else was a lie.
Wilson. The name was tattooed onto his heart. His patient had tried to erase a tattoo on her leg that was a reminder of her reckless, meaningless youth, but only the surface layers had been removed. What had been left behind, that which was deeper and more permanent, was what had been killing her. House had tried to remove his tattoo as well. The hope of Wilson ever coming to love him the same way he loved him. That had been after Amber and even after his best friend had returned from his self-imposed exile after her death. The tension that had existed between them that year had convinced him that he had to stop believing that the oncologist would ever fall in love with him too.
He had tried to distract himself--erase the tattoo--by turning to Cuddy to fill the hole in his heart that he had hoped Wilson would fill. She was beautiful, smart, sassy and sexy. They were friends; perhaps they weren't as close as he and Wilson had been, but they were close. They had history, although, admittedly, it was a brief one. He knew that she was attracted to him, too. There had been signals, false-starts, and strong sexual tension. He had tried so hard to fall in love with her, and perhaps he had, somewhat. But even as he pursued her to no avail he knew that he would never love her with the intensity and purity as he did Wilson.
The oncologist was his one, true, unrequited love—the fairytale kind—and no one would ever fill that Wilson-shaped hole in his heart as perfectly as the oncologist himself. After he had returned from Mayfield—after he had moved in with his best friend and Cuddy had quashed his hopes for a relationship with her—he began to fall even more deeply in love with Wilson. When he closed his eyes he had been able to imagine that they were not only roommates but bedmates as well. He could pretend that the gestures Wilson made, the pranking and joking, the flirting and the long, long looks the younger man had given him were his ways of telling him, "I love you, too." After Wilson had bought the organ just for him, House had thought, Finally, he's telling me that he loves me! He's telling me that he wants me here and that this is our home. Home.
Foolishness. Lies.
Wilson loved Sam, had chosen her over him just as Cuddy had chosen Lucas over him. It was always that way. House knew that he was the booby prize. That was the truth.
So why? Why had they led him on? Why had Wilson deluded him with the gifts, the closeness? House couldn't understand how he could have been so wrong! He was usually a better judge of character, of people. How had he failed so badly?
Or had he?
Like one of his medical epiphanies it dawned on him what had happened. It was the only explanation. House knew he couldn't have read things so incorrectly. His whole life was about observing the signs, putting the pieces together to solve the puzzle. He was almost never wrong with the final solution, and when he was it was because the puzzle had never been complete to begin with, pieces were missing or hidden making a clear and correct answer impossible. He now understood…and Wilson would too.
House checked the liquor bottle, hoping he had missed some in the bottom; he needed more liquid courage if he was going to be able to see this through. This was something he could only do drunk, when his insecurities and doubts were numbed and he wasn't terrified to put his heart out on a limb. Unfortunately the bottle really was empty. That's alright. He could stop and buy some more on the way.
Before he could change his mind, House hurried out of his apartment. He'd take his car; he had been drinking after all and it probably wouldn't be a good idea to try to ride the bike like this. He staggered slightly, placing more weight on his cane than he usually did dead sober. He managed to get to his car and climb into it without much difficulty. He backed out of his parking stall, nearly clipping the car next to him as he did. Oops! That was close.
He drove, sort of, to the nearest liquor store and emerged with his friend Johnny, last name, Walker. He opened the bottle and took a couple of swigs before heading the rest of the way to the condo he had once shared with his best friend…before said friend had dumped him. That was alright. Wilson hadn't understood why he was doing what he was. House did, though. He'd figured it out and it made perfect sense. He would help Wilson see the truth and understand. He would thank him for it—if not now then later. House would help him see the truth after years of keeping it to himself.
House parked on the street outside of the condo building. Sam's car was parked in his space in the parking garage. That's alright. It wouldn't be for long. Clutching his bottle, He staggered towards the building, weaving more than he had before. He swallowed more booze. He was gaining courage. It was good. It would be good. It had to.
He still had his key. Wilson hadn't asked for it and he hadn't volunteered it. Wilson still had a key to his apartment so they were even. He figured that was the oncologist's thinking as well. He entered the lobby and then stopped. What if Wilson and the Harpy were having sex in the living room? It occurred to him that he could watch and just pretend that instead of Sam, he was the one the oncologist was making love to.
No…Wilson probably wouldn't go for that. He was such a square.
"My square," House mumbled softly. He searched his pockets for his cell phone. Finding it he pressed speed dial. It rang and rang. "C'mon Wils'n," he slurred, swaying on his feet and putting the bottle to his mouth again. Quit fuckin' 'er and pick u' the phone!"
Finally the line was picked up at the other end and House swallowed the liquor in his mouth quickly, nearly choking on it.
"Hello?" It was Sam, sounding sickeningly sweet. So she was answering the phone, now, huh? Nice.
"I wanna talk t'Wils'n," House slurred heavily.
Sam sighed in disgust. "It's you. Look, House. Leave us alone, will you? You lost. Be a man and suck it up, already!"
"Look, bitch," he said in return. "Pu' 'im on the phone! You don' want 'im to find out I call'd an' you didn' tell 'im."
"Give me a break--!" she began but House cut her off.
"Get 'im!" he literally screamed, droplets of saliva spraying from his mouth in every direction.
He heard her hang up. Fucking bitch! The diagnostician thought. You fucking dirty whore!
He wasn't going to let her stop him and keep him away from Wilson anymore. He stumbled into the lift and took it to the top. Getting off, he had to pause a moment to remember which door was Wilson's. He didn't want to end up in the neighbor's place again.
Somehow he made it to the loft door without stumbling to the floor. Leaning heavily against the door jamb he tried the handle, but the place was locked up tight. Whatever, he decided, and found the keys on the keychain. Making quick work of the locks he tried the door and it opened easily. Ha! The Harpy had forgotten about the chain bolt—not that it would have kept him out for long anyway. He stumbled into the foyer and slammed the door behind him.
"Wils'n!" he bellowed loudly, staggering into the living room. He looked around. The lights were on but nobody appeared to be home—but of course he knew they were. "Wils'n!"
Sam came running from the kitchen, wiping her hands on House's apron—the one Wilson had bought for him when he had attended cooking classes with him. There was tomato sauce all over it.
"What the hell are you doing here!" she hissed at him, trying to keep her volume down. She obviously didn't want Wilson to know that he was there. "How did you get in?"
"Wils'n! C'm put' yo' bitch in the bathroom so w'can talk!"
"How dare you!" she screeched, apparently no longer concerned about keeping the oncologist in the dark. "Get out of my home or I'll call the police!"
" 'It's no' your home!" the diagnostician told her. " 'It's Wils'n's."
Sam charged at him, grabbing House by the arm and trying to drag him to the door so she could throw him out. Frustrated that she couldn't move him, she hauled off and half-slapped/half-punched him across the left cheek. House recoiled and fell against the wall behind him but he didn't lose his footing.
"Gi' out of m'way, slut!"House told her, rubbing the scarlet red mark on his face. He put a hand on her shoulder pushed her aside and she bumped into the sofa, nearly flying over the back. He hadn't intended to use that much force but, whatever—
"House!"
Wilson stood at the end of the corridor that led to the bedrooms. He held a book in his hands and wore a look of horror on his face. He had arrived in time to see the diagnostician push his girlfriend but had missed the wallop she had given him a couple of seconds before. Of course. The oncologist strode past him to Sam, and checked on her.
"Are you alright?" Wilson asked her in concern.
Sam nodded, rubbing at her shoulder like it was agonizingly painful. "Yes, I think so. He let himself in, started raving--!"
"She wouldn't let me talk to you on the phone so I had to come up!" House objected, trying to explain. "She hit me, tried to throw me out!"
"So you figured it was perfectly acceptable to abuse her?" Wilson demanded in anger and disbelief.
"James," Sam interjected, holding onto his arm. Her eyes met House's and she scowled vindictively before looking up at Wilson innocently. "Don't! He's obviously drunk. He probably didn't mean to--!"
"No," Wilson told her firmly. "He has no excuse for what he just did to you. Don't try to protect him!"
"Wils'n," House said desperately, "y' have to listen t'me. I figured 't out. I understan' why you dumped me! I wanna 'splain it to you!"
"Get out!" Wilson was shaking from head to toe with outrage. "Give me your damned key and get out! I won't stand by and let you hurt my girlfriend because of your…your insane…obsession with me! This is my life, House! I decide what I want and who I want, not you! I am not your doormat anymore!"
House rolled his eyes in derision. "I didn' hurt 'er!" he scoffed. "She's acting. She 'it me first!"
Wilson advanced on the diagnostician; House noticed him form his left hand into a fist. He stopped a few feet short of the older man.
"I cannot believe you!" Wilson cried in amazement. "You're justifying pushing a woman around? You're calling her a liar? What has happened to you, House? I don't even know who you are anymore!"
House tried to grab the oncologist by the shoulders so he could make Wilson look at him and listen to reason but the younger man shrugged him off. " 'M your bes' friend! Rem'ber? Lissen t' me! I have t'esplain to you why you're makin' this huge mistake! For god'ssake, Wils'n—James!—we've known each other f' nealy two decades! Jus' hear me out…please!" The last word was whispered and the older man looked so heartbroken that Wilson paused a moment.
The younger man stared at his briefly, his face contorted by indecision, concern, anger, fear. With his hands on his hips he sighed and then nodded.
"You've got two minutes," he told House firmly, his brown eyes staring intently at him, almost challenging him to say the wrong thing and expecting him to.
"Alone," House insisted quietly. He wanted to stare daggers at Sam, who was listening at this exchange with the hint of a smug smile. Instead he kept his eyes on Wilson—well, the two of him that he currently saw.
Exhaling loudly, Wilson turned to look at his girlfriend. "Sam? Would you mind?"
House swallowed hard, feeling nauseous at how the oncologist had to ask his owner for permission to speak privately with his friend. It was pathetic, and almost said so, but even in his advanced state of inebriation knew better than to do that.
At first the Harpy looked like she was going to protest but must have seen something in Wilson's expression that the diagnostician couldn't and closed her mouth. She nodded, frowning, and left the room, heading in the direction of the bedrooms. The oncologist turned back to him.
"Two minutes, House," his unrequited love told him, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
Nodding, the other man took a step closer to the other and then stopped, nearly toppling over. Wils'n, I's thinkin' 'bout us," the diagnostician began, his voice hoarse from the alcohol burning his vocal cord and from yelling, screaming, crying while all alone back at his apartment. "How we've become so close this pas' year. Closer than we ever were b'fore. Don' you think so too?"
Wilson hesitated a moment and then nodded.
"I' was fun, the two of us here. F'r the firstime in my life, I fel' like I hadda home," House continued. He wasn't aware that his eyes were tearing up. He took another swallow of liquid courage from the bottle still in his hand.
"I asked you to come back, but you called me wishy-washy and drove away," Wilson reminded him.
" 'Cause iss not m'home," House replied, shaking his head. "I though' t'was, but the truth is I'never was, was it? I thought tha'…f-fuck, how do I say this? I guess I jus' say it. I's no' like you can kick me ou' again, right?"
"House…." Wilson began to protest but House wouldn't let him go any further.
"Lemme fin'sh and then I'll ge' the fuck outta here and you won' have t'be bothered wi' me again, 'kay?" House exclaimed. "Y'took me in when I go' outta Mayfield. Why? Y'wanted me t'be there when you though' y' might die on th' table donating y'r liver. Why? Y'bough' this condo t'get back a' Cuddy and Lucas. Why? Y'were concern' 'bout me when I's reading my real father's book. Why? You let someone else pick ou' th' furn'ture f'r this place but y' took th'e time and though't' pick ou' tha' organ f'r me—w'both know it was f'r me 'cause you don' play—why? When y'gave I' to me there was tha'momen'—don't fuckin' pretend y'don' rem'ber—when we jus' stared a'each other. Neither one o' us could look away an' we commu-mu-nicated more in tha' look than we ever ha' b'fore in th' entire time we've known each other. Why? Can ya answer me tha'? Why, Wils'n?
"I don' wan' some fuckin' tex'book answer. I wanna know wha' y'r true motives were, th' ones you've b'n denyin' f'r years, th'ones that have led you through two faile' marr'ages, an affair with a patient, a dead girlfrien' an' my goin' fuckin' crazy. N'matter wha', I always end up comin' back t'you an' you end up comin'back t'me. Y'know why bu' you hate I' so you keep findin' woman after woman t'push the answer away, deny tha't it exists, pr'tend you're someone you're no'. You have t'be the goo' Jewish son, th' norm'l, upstandin', moral fuckin' symbol of th' successful American male, you have t'be wha' society says y' should be—a dutiful husban' wi'h a beautiful wife an' two-poin'-four kids wi'the dog, th' house, th' garage an' th' fuckin' picket fence! You an' Cuddy an' y'r fuckin' fences! Why? Y'know why. We both do now—jus' come clean an'tell me why?"
Wilson had the entire spectrum of emotions coalescing on his face. He was slowly shaking his head the entire time House spoke, his fists clenching and unclenching. His chest felt tight. His breathing appeared to be labored.
He took a shaky breath. "House, you're very drunk. You don't even know what you're talking about. I'm going to call you a cab. Go home and sleep this off and…and we'll talk over lunch tomorrow. Okay?"
House smirked bitterly, shaking his head and took another swig from his bottle. "I'm drunk bu' I'm no' stupid an' I'm no' in denial like you are. You're hidin' b'hind Sam 'cause she remin's you of a time when y'didn' know me, when y' were ev'rythin' y'r mommy and daddy wanted you t'be and y'didn' know this fuck'd up ass'ole standin' in fronta you. Y're scared of no' fittin' on tha' picture-perf'ct pos'card of a life you've b'n holdin' onto desp'rately f'r years. Terr'fied. Then y'began t'realize that it was becomin' harder an' harder t'deny who y'really are and exac'ly how much I really mean t'you. You began t'realize why y'relationship wi' me has b'n th' longest one you've had in y'r life an' it scared you so much tha' you nearly piss'd y'rself, didn't it!"
"I have no idea what you're talking about!" the oncologist told him, his face getting red, his breathing quicker, more shallow, nearing hyperventilation. In truth it looked like all he wanted to do was jump out of his skin and run away. House knew he was getting to him. Just a little more pushing and the truth would be out and he would never be alone again. Neither of them would!
"House, you need to go!" Wilson said explosively and grabbed the older man, steering him insistently and forcefully towards the door. "I'll call you a cab so wait for it down stairs but you have to get the hell out! You have to leave before we both say things we can never take back and our friendship is destroyed because of it!"
"Bu' it doesn'' have t'be!" House insisted, his face wet with tears. "I know, Wils'n! I know! Y'can tell me an'd ev'rythin' will be o-kay!"
"You don't know anything!" Wilson cried out loudly. "I don't know anything! Damn it House, don't fucking do this! Please just get the fuck out!" There were tears running down his face, too. Wilson had him in the foyer. The older man with the crippled leg who was out of his mind drunk was no match for him at that point. Additionally, House wasn't even trying to fight him. He didn't want to fight Wilson, to hurt him. That was the last thing that he wanted. Wilson tried to open the front door but House kept pushing it shut and leaning his weight on it to prevent him.
House realized that he was about to fail, again. Wilson wasn't listening. He didn't want to listen because he knew that everything the diagnostician had just told him was true; he only had one more weapon left in his arsenal. If it backfired, House knew it meant defeat.
"James?" the Harpy's voice came from deeper within the loft. "Is everything alright?"
"Don' you understan'?" House slurred, sobbing now. "J'mmy…J'mmy, I love you! I'm fuckin' in love wi' you! An' you're in love wi' me!"
Wilson's eyes flashed open in utter shock at the confession and yet, the expression in them wasn't amazement. Wilson wasn't surprised by the revelation, only by the fact that House had actually come out and said the words and by doing so made it real.
"No!" the oncologist whispered, shaking his head and tightening his grip on the older man's shoulders. He managed to shove the door open and was tensing in preparation of throwing the taller, stronger man out on his ass. And yet, at the last moment, he hesitated, his brown eyes staring into House's blue ones and in that one moment the oncologist's eyes made the confession that he could never allow his lips to do.
House realized this may be the last chance he would ever have—ever—and he had to take it. If he was going to self-destruct, he wanted no regrets, no if onlies. Grasping Wilson's head he pushed his lips onto his, kissing him with the passion and urgency of a lifetime of hurt and longing for love. He loved Wilson with every fiber of his being and knew that a life without him in it wasn't worth living. At first Wilson resisted him with all of his might but the energy behind House's desperate need was stronger. Just as the older man was about to give up, to come up for air and admit defeat he felt something, something with Wilson's lips. They softened. Was he…no…he was! He was kissing back! House's heart soared with hope.
It was short lived. A sob came from deep in Wilson's throat into House's mouth and the oncologist with one great shove pushed the diagnostician out of the door. His cane slid out from beneath him and a fraction of a second later he felt his back make painful contact with the opposing corridor wall, followed by the back of his head. He cried out not from physical pain but from the shock of being wrong again, so very, very wrong…!
House felt himself slide down the wall and come to land hard on his right side on the corridor floor. The partial bottle of Johnny Walker fell from his hand, hit the carpeted floor with a thud, and rolled away from him down the corridor, spilling its contents as it did. His ruined thigh screamed upon contact and instantly the agony sobered him up enough to know that he had lost. He grabbed at his leg and stared up through stars to see the face of the man he loved staring down at him, red-eyed. His expression was one of anger and hurt but the only thing House saw was contempt.
"I. Don't. Love. You!" Wilson told him coldly. "Please, House. Just…just go away!"
The diagnostician's eyes followed Wilson as he turned around, stepped back into the loft that had once been home, and shut the door.
Still in the fetal position, he rolled until his forehead and knees were contacting the floor, his weight mostly on his forearms and he sobbed. He didn't give a fuck who saw or heard. He didn't care about anything anymore. There was nothing left of any value in his life now that he'd lost Wilson.
He was uncertain how much time had passed when he heard the door to Wilson's loft open again. He didn't move, but out of the corner of his eyes he could see a pair of women's dress boots step over the threshold towards him--the Harpy's boots. She stood over him for a moment or two before kicking him viciously in the arm, sending pain shooting up into his shoulder and down to his clenched hand. He groaned pathetically.
"You fucking faggot," House heard Sam say icily in a quiet, sharp voice. "Don't you know by now that you can't win?"
She turned around and returned to the warmth of the loft. The door clicked shut.
After another eternity passed, House found his cane a few feet away. He crawled over to it and grasped it, using it to clumsily get up to his feet. Somehow, he made it down to the lobby, but he didn't really know how. He stumbled out of the building and down the short walkway to his car. He saw a cab approaching. Fuck that, he decided. He didn't need Wilson's fucking charity. He climbed into his car, started her up, and then peeled away from the curb. He drove fast…very, very fast. The car swerved in and out of his lane and sometimes into oncoming traffic. His only salvation was that it was quite late now and the streets of Princeton were quite empty.
He only came to a stop when he sideswiped a parked car and swerved into a lamp post. Amazingly he climbed out of his car unscathed. Too bad he couldn't say the same about the car. Fuck it! It didn't matter! Nothing mattered. He grabbed his cane and staggered off of the deserted street, walking towards music. He blearily saw a bar up ahead. But first he had to take care of business—now! He stumbled into an alley and ended up behind a dumpster behind said bar and took a piss against a brick wall. He began to cry. It wasn't a quiet sob but a loud, wailing, soul-purging bawl.
Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? He looked up at the sky and began to curse God, calling him every foul word he could ever remember having heard. There were no atheists in foxholes and there wasn't one in that darkened alley at that moment, either. Of course there was a god. Randomness was so much kinder. Only a vicious, vindictive, sadistic deity would be cruel enough to have allowed him to survive the bus crash two years ago. That had been the beginning of the end of him but he hadn't been wise enough to see it until now.
House's knees buckled and he fell again, but at least this time he fell on his left side. He chuckled ruefully through his tears. Thank god for small fucking favors. The chuckle returned to a sob. House never really knew exactly at what point he blacked out, only that it had occurred it had been merciful.
~~ end ~~