((This story wasn't beta'd, by the way, and it's been a while since I attempted a fanfic. My first House one, though it's been bugging me. Anywho...enjoy.))
She hadn't meant to start smoking. It was a bad habit of hers, and she knew it. But then, she had a lot of bad habits. She had a habit of keeping secrets that no one actually knew. Every teenager did, but that particular secret was important. It was no longer a secret, of course. Now everyone knew. Not only just in her family, or her circle of friends—the entire town knew. "And tonight at ten, a high school tennis coach arrested and charged with six counts of sexual assault on a minor among other charges. What's happening at your child's school? Again, this story at ten tonight." She put the cigarette to her lips and inhaled it into her lungs, then proceeded to blow it out the window. Her picture had been released into the media, thanks to her brilliant mother, and now everyone knew she was the one. Strangers in the hallways avoided her like she had some kind of disease; teachers no longer called on her, nevermind that she had the answer. She had no idea what exactly where to go now.
She remembered it like it was yesterday, as cliché as it sounds. She was still in the hospital for a small case of meningitis she'd managed to pick up goodness knew where, but she was due for a full recovery thanks to the antibacterial IV in her arm. She'd glanced up when she saw someone enter in, and she was unsurprised to see her coach standing there. At this point, she was still blaming herself. Had she not asked for help from him, she definitely would not have seen him transform into a classic Munchausen's biproxy case. He was now no longer waiting for her to get sick so he could take care of her; he was making her sick. "Take this," He would say quite often. He made up some reason why she should, usually stating it would make her game better. She believed him for a while, but even then, her genuine Wilson naivety wore away. She knew what it was, but she kept taking it. She had no idea that his need to hurt her, only to nurse her back, would go so far.
It was not her father that first figured out she was being poisoned. It was her father's best friend, Dr. House. She'd known him practically his whole life, and he was looking out for her. She had a high level of…something, she'd forgotten the correct term for it. "That's found in arthritis medicine," Someone had mentioned, and House had made the connection. In loose conversation, her coach had mentioned his arthritis to House, who had of course brushed it off. But him and his amazing memory were at work once more right after he'd made that connection. "She cried during her exams?" House had asked his team, and they agreed, one adding that she was scared. She chuckled lightly. There was no more fear after that happened to you, she'd figured that out very quickly. He continued to make connections, making the rash conclusion that she was raped.
Finding it far-fetched but worth exploring, her father decided to go for it, and House and her father confronted her. "It's true," She had snapped to them, angry with them for knowing it. "It's true, all of it!" She continued. As luck would have it, he managed to walk in the room that moment with an oversized novelty "Get Well" card from the team, and a box of chocolates from him. She scratched her arm at the thought, the cigarette pressed between her lips as she did. The thought made her skin just crawl. Her father proceeded to talk the man, cursing wildly and almost choking him, while House simply called security. That was two weeks ago, and it still was fresh in her mind as she sat there on her windowsill, smoking a cigarette.
Miss Delilah Wilson had always had a happy childhood; there were no doubts about that. When her mother had left, things changed drastically. She threw tantrums, made threats, and got into trouble at school. The older she got the more she hated everything, and this past event was just the icing and the shitty cake of life. She blew the smoke out the window once more, and wondered to herself whether she would catch lung cancer. A smirk laid on her lips, then, at the thought. Not only would it give her an opportunity to just die, but it would certainly be the most convenient disease to get for her. She'd never thought of killing herself; it seemed like a silly option, and a selfish one at that. No, Delilah wanted to die, but she would never off herself. She couldn't hide the fact that for once since she'd last gone to Temple (which had to be years by now, thanks to her lax father) she prayed to God to please just take her, once and for all.
For the first time in what seemed like hours, she moved. She moved from her windowsill, putting the cigarette out and throwing it down onto the busy street below her. If her father had caught her smoking, he would definitely make her pay for it. It was a shame he didn't know she'd been addicted for about three years now. Starting smoking when one was thirteen was just something in her life, though, and there was nothing she could do about it. Delilah enjoyed doing things to piss off her father, though. She'd cut her hair to where it came to her earlobe, and dyed the lower level of it black, which he hated. She wore somewhat questionable outfits, making him cringe. But to make matters worse, she cursed. She noticed he was having a difficult time hating her lately, however.
An anger rose up inside of her suddenly. She hated how nice he was being. She rose up from the windowsill, in her juvenile pajamas, and shook her head. She hated that he was hugging her more, and buying her things, and trying to make her feel better. He couldn't. She was under the impression nothing really could. She'd taken House's advice and decided to try and 'get over it', as he oh-so-eloquently put it to her one day as she was complaining to him. She plopped on her bed, bouncing a couple of times as she did, and she heard the bed squeak loudly. Who did he think he was, anyway, trying to help her? What did he know about her? Not a month ago he'd attempted to serve her salad with strawberries in it, and she'd practically barked that she was allergic to them. She frowned at the thought, and bit down hard on her lip, feeling the skin break.
As she thought these things, though, a wave of guilt crashed over her, and she immediately felt cold. Who did she think she was? This man practically raised her on his own, and she…Delilah sighed, and she rose up, going to the kitchen to get her some water, and maybe some alcohol to drown herself in. She wasn't sure which just yet. She accidentally slammed on of the cabinets, but she couldn't hear him stir. She poured some water in a glass she'd made when she was in preschool, and she frowned to herself, facing the sink as she did. She wanted to apologize to him for everything, but then she would just be weird. She needed to just start anew, try and ask for his forgiveness but just acting better, and—
"It's two in the morning."
There stood Dr. James Wilson, in his boxer shorts and t-shirt, his hair disheveled as it usually was at night. He oozed caring as he stood there, his little eyes frowning at her, concerned. He walked in, his bare feet making no noise on the linoleum floors as he did, and he stumbled slightly. He was obviously very sleepy, but based on the vague smell of alcohol on him; he was also just a little drunk. He opened the fridge, took out a bottled water, taking a sip, and then screwing the top back on. He looked over to his daughter and frowned a little bit, ruffling his hair. "What're you doing up?" He asked, and that made her angry, though he couldn't see it just yet. "Are you alright?" And that certainly did not help.
Delilah frowned, and she shook her head. "I just wanted to get some water, dad, God! I didn't expect twenty-questions when I did!" She wanted so bad to push him away, but he seemed to even understand that. She looked very angry, now. "I'm fine! How else would I be at two in the morning? Besides, tired, I guess, but does that really matter?" She asked him harshly, and she pushed back some of her hair. She felt tears and that tell-tale lump in her throat, but she didn't cry. Not until he left, he didn't need to see her like this. She turned around, refilling her glass as slowly as she could.
"Of course it matters," He mumbled to her, and he frowned slightly, shaking his head. What was he going to do with her? Maybe he should just give her what she wanted…it always worked before. "I'll go back to bed, then. If you're really okay." He gave her a brief opportunity to say something before he turned and walked off, his hair flopping as he did. He knew she wasn't okay, and he knew that she was crying, now. Why did she have to hide it from him? People would most certainly be hurt from what happened to her, so he could not figure out why she thought he expected different. She was human.
As he walked off, Delilah felt something like her heart tripping and falling into her stomach. She let out a low, frustrated growl, and she stared down at the sink. What was wrong with her, damnit? She knew in her heart of hearts that she wanted nothing more than to just be held, cry, and scream. So why did she end up just clenched her teeth and balling up her fists? She looked back to his door as it closed, and she felt herself pale slightly as she did. She pushed back her hair, hating herself for doing it like that. She hated herself for smoking. She hated herself for hating.
With heavy steps, or so it seemed to her, she walked forward. She stopped in front of his door and stared at it, like it was mocking her. "He's not going to want to be with you," Said a voice inside her head, and she rolled her eyes. That just can't have been true, she thought to herself. But then again, he was usually avoidant of her. He never really made much of an effort in trying to be with her. He was always at the hospital with House, or his damn cancer patients. Her fists balled up again, and she half-considered just punching in his door, but then decided against it. "He loves me," She reminded herself, actually out loud, and with a loud gulp, she turned the handle and walked into his room, first poking her foot in, and then her head. "Dad?" She mumbled to him, and frowned.
He looked back up at her, his eyes widening. "Yes, Delilah?" He asked, and he sat up in his bed, leaving the book next to him. He waited for it, and finally, it came. It actually came.
"I'm sor—!" And she couldn't even finish it. She was in tears, violent tears that smudged her makeup from that day. Her body lurched forward in sobs, and in that heat of the moment, she actually fell to her knees. She was sad. Like lightning James was out of bed and at her side, an awkward arm around her. He had wanted her to break down like this, but at first he did not know what to do. As she muttered through her tears though instinct clocked in, and he immediately held her, closing his eyes and listening to what she had to say. He wasn't aware it was that bad. He knew she was upset, but…He closed his eyes and just nodded every once in a while.
The night soon bled into morning, and his eyes reopened to the sunlight peaking in through the blinds. He'd vaguely remembered moving Delilah to his bed and he held her until she slept. He was late for work, he knew, as he heard his alarm kept blaring at him. He reached his arm over her pale, lithe body and shut it off before closing his eyes.
The hospital could wait.