Title: Far Above the World
Author: Shelli
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG
Word Count: Roughly 2,640
Summary: This is Ground Control to Major Tom. Wilson
can feel Atlantic City settle over his skin and he just wants a shower.
House is there beside him with a rattle of pills and he plays down the
dread that fingers his spine.
Spoilers: Takes place from "Son of a Coma Guy" to "Merry Little Christmas." Denouement is after "Words and Deeds."
Notes: Inspired by "Space Oddity" and "Ashes to Ashes" by David Bowie. Loosely based on them, even.
Ground Control to Major Tom. Ground Control to Major Tom.
Wilson drives this time. The night hangs low outside the windshield, and he can see House's reflection. Quiet, House is staring sideways out the window with his hat pulled over his head, a gift from Wilson back when they—well, he—still gave presents. His hands are loose on the steering wheel though he feels a tense nerve somewhere. He tastes Atlantic City; his seat smells like a man he barely knew and will never forget, and he shifts in his chair. He isn't looking forward to his hotel room.
He hears the rattle of pills and watches House, a creeping sensation of dread crawling low in his gut. He tilts his head, looks over at him, catches House's eyes, expectant and dangerous, watching him, waiting.
"This cop thing is getting pretty serious," he says anyway, glancing sideways to find House's eyes shifting to the windshield.
"And I'm innocent."
Wilson sighs but doesn't press, turns down the road to House's apartment. He pulls up in front of the building and watches House collect his cane, drop the pills into his pocket.
"Yeah, you never do anything to hurt anyone."
Wilson isn't sure who he says it to, and when he hears the door slam, he doesn't think House heard it anyway. He stares out the windshield for a few more minutes, listening to the heater humming gently, before he presses his foot to the gas.
Ground Control to Major Tom. Check ignition, and may God's love be with you.
Wilson can hear the ringing of his voice echoing in his office long after House has left, the door shutting behind him. He runs his pen between his fingers, stares at the files on his desk, but his vision is blurring and he can't sit here anymore. He runs a hand over his neck as he stands, fingers the figurine a patient—a girl, terminal—gave him last week. He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and he looks up, through the door to the balcony.
House stands in his office, his arm cradled in a sling. His hand is rubbing at his forehead and Wilson isn't sure he could remember a time when House looked so tired. Sympathy wears at him, but he curls his hand around the figurine, slides his fingers over the smooth clay edges, and he doesn't give in, not this time. His shoulders square subconsciously and he fixes his gaze.
House is going to learn this time. Even if it kills him.
(And he isn't sure which one of them he means by "him.")
10. 9. 8. 7. 6. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1.
He counts his steps, his heartbeats, listens to them echo in the empty corridor. It's eerie that it's so quiet, even though there are people just behind him in the main part of the station, a deputy who gave him a once over and pointed him in the direction of Tritter's office. Now he tries to catch his breath, his thoughts. This feels like a dream. His steps are difficult, as if his feet weigh a ton each but this is something he has to do. This is for House. Just like everything else in his life.
His mind touches lightly on a hotel room, a locked bank account, bus rides in the dark, dark eyes shaded by a helmet, but that isn't why he's here. He knows his place with House. In the grand scheme of things according to House, how he feels is insignificant. He's always known it, but maybe now, maybe it isn't enough. He slides his lip between his teeth and bites lightly. Maybe this is as much for him—for them—as it is for House.
Guilt creeps at him, and he smirks because it reminds him of his grandmother with a very Jewish nose, the one he's always been thankful he didn't get. He steps to the door, places his hand around the handle.
Liftoff.
This is Ground Control to Major Tom. Now it's time to leave the capsule if you dare.
"Are you insane?"
House's eyes are dangerous and suddenly Wilson can taste hoagies. He keeps his gaze steady, eyes level. He tries to breathe but his hand burns at the feeling of the cold metal doorknob.
"I'm not taking the deal. You can get out of my office too. If you hurry, maybe you can catch your new friend. Maybe he'll give you a ride home after work."
Wilson sighs, runs a hand over his face. "This is your ticket out of this. There isn't going to be any neat conclusion; you either take this deal or—"
"Or what? I go to jail?" House rounds on Wilson and he doesn't flinch even as something inside him sinks at the color of House's voice. "I haven't done anything." He says the words like Wilson is slow, the emphasis creeping into his bones from the feet up. House is still, watching, waiting. Wilson turns his eyes, stares out the doors.
"And that matters?" He turns his head to find House's eyes flicking over his face. "You really think that matters to him? Principle isn't going to save you on this one, House."
For a few fleeting moments their eyes burn into each other before House takes his cane and brushes past him, limping for the door. Wilson stands for a few moments, leaning his hands against House's desk to chill his sweating palms. A headache is forming, spreading like a spider web outward from his temples, and his mind races. He pulls a hand over his neck and turns his eyes to the door.
A few moments later and he's walking out. At the elevator, he hesitates before jabbing the down button. The doors ding and he steps out, feet picking up the pace until he's running to catch up with the limping gait.
This is Major Tom to Ground Control. The stars look very different today.
He's waiting at the elevator when he hears Wilson come up behind him, but he doesn't turn around, just presses his finger into the button again. He feels alive for the first time in a few days, his blood swimming with strength and his mind might be lilting a little to the side but he can bend his leg. He can't remember the last time it felt so good to be thrumming with the absence of pain.
The door opens with a gentle sound and he steps on, Wilson beside him. He punches the button for the first floor with his finger, the bottle giving a rattle as he let his arm drop back to his side. The elevator is painfully silent and his mind is whirring. He does an inventory of the pills left in the bottle in his pocket. He notices the tilt of Wilson's head, the shade of his glance to the floor. Wilson doesn't know but House can feel his deflation. House bites the inside of his cheek and stares straight ahead.
It's once they've left the elevator, the quietest ride they ever had, and are stepping out into the night that Wilson tosses a soft "Merry Christmas."
House ignores him but slips a hand into his pocket to slide his fingers over the plastic.
Back in his apartment and he feels the stillness creep over his skin. There are ten left, then seven, then five, then two. He flips the bottle between his fingers, the burn of alcohol not enough to keep his mind grounded. The snow skitters and dances in patterns outside his window, but it hurts his eyes if he looks too long. The phone is black and still and he thinks of Christmas in his youth, in different countries, unfamiliar places. Christmas is a mixture of spices and snow and family and dark faces. He picks up the phone.
It's when the spots come—in black first, then red and green—that he puts his head in his hands, mind reeling with images of bottles and faces and Christmas trees and canes and promises. He feels drunk and high and sick and he gurgles words to himself.
"For here am I sitting in a tin can." He snickers, voice falling in a poor imitation of David Bowie. The wave of nausea comes fast and strong and he stands, takes a step. Pain and blackness strike at once. The floor meets him as his vision dies.
Ground Control to Major Tom. Your circuit's dead; there's something wrong.
Wilson listens to the echo of his knock in the hallway. He feels mostly tired. The rest of him is a tight knot of worry, sitting low in his stomach, against the base of his spine, but mostly he's just tired. He knows this is just a stunt, just House ignoring him. He'll wind up inside and find House smirking at him, staring at the piano keys, bottle of pills in his hands. Still he knocks; that ball of worry crept into him until he couldn't sit still, until he had to drag himself out of his hotel room near midnight on Christmas Eve.
Finally he just puts his key in the lock, pushes open the door. The apartment is silent; it isn't like House to turn in early—especially when there's one James E. Wilson MD on his sofa—but he starts heading for the bedroom anyway.
The body on the floor comes into his sight.
Can you hear me, Major Tom? Can you hear me, Major Tom?
The flash of worry catches him off guard and despite years of trained calm he finds his heart creeping into his throat as he leans over, pulls House over onto his back. The eyes that stare up at him are swimming, unfocused, dull. But they're moving. House's breath comes out in a fog of whisky and vomit. His heart resumes its normal rhythm but it begins to sink lower and lower.
The label is so pristine white that it hurts his eyes as he picks it up, reads his own name there in stark black letters. He can see what he would normally have done in this situation play out in his mind. He can see himself maneuvering House onto the sofa, toweling him off, cleaning up the floor. He'd set himself up in the armchair—not the most comfortable of sleeping positions, but years of doctors training prepared him to sleep on any still surface. He can get a clear picture of what he would normally do.
But he isn't going to do that this time. He tells himself as he stands that this is what House needs, that House needs to lie on the floor in his own vomit as Wilson walks away from him to understand that there aren't going to be people around to pick up after him all the time. That sometime he's going to have to pick himself up and clean up his own messes.
His own voice is convincing but it can't overcome the swell of bitterness, pain, betrayal, and contempt as it slides into his mind and crashes into his consciousness.
The sound of the bottle hitting the floor haunts his ears as he leaves House's apartment and steps back into the cold Christmas night.
Can you hear?
Here am I floating round my tin can.
He stands in the police station. The room is empty, dark, and as he stands with his hands in his pocket and his nose thawing out in the relative heat of the public building, he feels an emptiness creep over him. He can taste the death he almost achieved on his tongue, can feel its edges in his bones. More than anything he can feel the way the room seemed to dull when he watched Wilson walk away. The Christmas carols fill the small room, cheerful and promising, but all he can hear is "Merry Christmas" echo over and over again in his head.
His hands curl in his pockets.
Planet Earth is blue and there's nothing I can do.