Title: I Shall Believe
Author: Tubesox
Rating: T (PG13, for brief profanity)
Pairing: Strong House/Wilson friendship
Summary: Faced with illness, will House find anything or anyone worth fighting for? Or forgiving?
A/N: This is my first House fic, but hopefully you'll enjoy.
"I Shall Believe" by Sheryl Crow
Come to me now
And lay your hands over me
Even if it's a lie
Say it will be alright
And I shall believe
I'm broken in two
And I know you're on to me
That I only come home
When I'm so all alone
But I do believe
That not everything is gonna be the way
You think it ought to be
It seems like every time I try to make it right
It all comes down on me
Please say honestly you won't give up on me
And I shall believe
And I shall believe
Open the door
And show me your face tonight
I know it's true
No one heals me like you
And you hold the key
Never again
Would I turn away from you
I'm so heavy tonight
But your love is alright
And I do believe
That not everything is gonna be the way
You think it ought to be
It seems like every time I try to make it right
It all comes down on me
Please say honestly
You won't give up on me
And I shall believe
I shall believe
And I shall believe
Gregory House was dreaming. It wasn't often these days that his nights had anything near a coherent narrative. Normally his narcotic-tinted sleep was full of bright images, flashes of memories, a slip of skin, a hint of pain. Oh, occasionally he'd have true dreams. He'd relive the days of the infarc. The months of recovery. The years compressed into minutes that seemed to drag out an eternity of being left by and pushing away everyone he ever loved. And there was that dream with Wilson, Cuddy, and oompa loompas. It had been disturbing. And wonderful to share. But the dream he was having Monday night was not some twisted sexual fantasy. And thank God, he thought. Because he didn't want the memory of his mother anywhere near that part of his brain.
"I'm going to medical school," he was saying. House had always been lanky, but it really showed on this young man's body. Muscles in his arms and legs would develop during medical school and his years as an intern, when he'd take up rowing and lacrosse in a last-ditch effort to be sociable and attract a different sort of woman than he was used to. But at 20, he looked like an obscenely tall marionette.
"Well, I just want you to be happy," was his mother's less-than-enthusiastic response. House had been expecting this. Well, not exactly this. He knew his mother had a passive-aggressive streak a mile wide, but he'd thought she would be a hint more…passionate on the subject. Considering.
"I'm a bit wary of happiness," House had answered.
"Greg," his mother sighed. He knew that she was holding back a 'just like your father' insult. He knew that the realization that she should hold it back was why her eyes were starting to well up. "Greg, don't make this decision just because –."
But he interrupted her before she could say it. Why say it? He didn't go a day, an hour, without thinking about his father, his body eating itself alive with cancer. He wouldn't choose to study oncology. He knew he'd never be able to think objectively, surrounded by so many reminders of his terminally ill family. He knew that a part of him would always hate patients who got to experience the joy of remission. At the time, he saw a problem with being bitter.
"I'm not sure happiness is the goal," he went on, as if his mother hadn't said a word.
"Do you…I could help with the loans?"
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
The alarm came as such a surprise that House jumped in his bed, then growled with pain as he reached over to turn it off. And then puked into his cupped hands.
"Dammit," he hissed, voice strained with coughs and stomach acid. He'd been battling nausea for a few days, forcing him to eat less, which forced him to cut back on the Vicodin, which made his stomach even more of a pissy bastard. He hated calling in sick to the hospital. It wasn't that he'd miss work, but he knew that people would assume it was either his leg or his addiction that was forcing him to stay home, and if it was one thing House couldn't abide, it was being forced into anything. Still, holding last night's dinner in the palms of his hands wasn't exactly the picture of perfect health, and there are some rules that he does believe in.
Maneuvering himself out of bed to get cleaned up, he wondered how long he could avoid making the call before Wilson turned up on his doorstep. He'd give it two hours, tops.
"Jesus! You look like crap," Wilson greeted when House answered his door at 10.
"How many times do I have to tell you? I'm trying to cut back on the personal savior business, so keep that secret identity on the low down," House answered. Not at all up to standards, but he forgave himself. The delivery of sublime sarcastic wit is an art form, and this morning it was hampered by a string of hiccups that he'd been fighting for the past 40 minutes.
"Seriously, what happened?" Wilson asked, letting himself into the apartment and taking a not-so-subtle survey of the apartment. No doubt checking for empty bottles of pills and booze.
"Stomach flu," House shrugged. "Or food poisoning. Remind me never to eat Julie's…anything again." He suppressed a leer he didn't really feel.
"I'm pretty sure her Chicken Parmesan didn't pack such a mean right hook," Wilson frowned, easing himself down onto the couch, wary of wrinkling his suit.
"What?" House asked, working around more hiccups.
"Are you drunk?" Wilson smirked.
"Not last time I checked. Though it would explain the symptoms."
"And the eye? Pick another fight last night? One of your hookers wanted to play rough? Cuddy finally snap?" The idea behind this descent into ridiculousness was that, at some point, even House would get exasperated enough to come clean.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," House answered, though he could easily guess. Wilson was staring at him with that look of pity/concern/amusement that he usually saved for confessions of sex and/or violence. Certain that he had no garish lipstick on his collar, he deduced it must be a black eye.
"Your shiner," Wilson clarified.
Greg limped his way over to the closet door's mirror. Sure enough, a purpling bruise was radiating from his right eye. "I bumped it against the sink faucet," he answered, frowning. It hadn't even hurt. Well, House's pain scale was a bit skewed, but still…
"What?" Wilson asked, seeing the look on House's face.
And House saw the look on Wilson's face. Worry. Unless he wanted it to escalate to sheer terror and panic, House would keep his mouth shut. Even if it wasn't just the flu, he told himself there was nothing anyone could do. If he couldn't fix it himself, time would.
"I think I'm going to puke again," he answered, and then he made good on the guess.
"Well, are you sure you don't want to come in to the clinic?" Wilson asked, hovering at the bathroom door and fighting the better part of himself not to help House.
House didn't bother with an answer. Just the what-the-hell-do-you-think look.
"Right," Wilson grinned. "I'll come buy later with some dinner?"
"Sure," House answered.
His gift with diagnostics, this certain type of intelligence that allowed him to connect the dots, didn't stem from some tragic childhood ailment, some close shave, some horrible, lingering illness that cut down a loved one. These things happened independent of anything and everything. That is their nature, the nature of diseases. Even if you know of some genetic predisposition or inheritance, mortality, the truth of mortality, always comes as a surprise, and being clever cannot stop it. The death of Greg's sister from SIDS didn't make him any smarter. A near-drowning in the Florida Keys on a family holiday didn't make him any smarter. Watching his father die slowly and painfully and messily of colon cancer didn't make him any smarter. But these things did make him hard, made him hungry, and, more than anything, they made him honest.
When his sister, Claire, died, his family had nearly fallen apart. Not from the grief, but from the unexpressed, uncontrollable anger. It seemed so inexplicable that everyone's immediate reaction was to cast blame. Only seven, Greg was treated with silent stares, stares filled either with great hope or great resentment for being the survivor, depending on who was looking at him. But when his parents left the room, he could hear them hissing at each other. They'd snipe about dishes, about garbage, dirty clothes and cold dinners. They'd complain about friends and time and they'd throw around every accusation but the one they both wanted to say. It wasn't until a teary-eyed Gregory House knocked on his parents' bedroom door one night and confessed that he'd wanted a baby brother and that was why Claire didn't wake up one morning that his parents found a way to live with each other again. Living with him, however, was another story.
At sixteen, Greg's intelligence was already showing. He was driving both teachers and fellow students crazy with his questions and his cockiness and his GPA. He had no idea what he wanted to do in life, only that he needed to get away from his parents. That attitude kept him company that summer when his mom dragged him and his father down to the Keys for a few weeks in the surf and sun. Knowing that they'd only go so far as getting their feet wet, Greg had left his parents on the shore, swimming until his arms burned and then treading water. He had only just started swimming to shore when an undertow caught hold of him and swept him further out to sea. He fell beneath the surface, thrashing about in blind panic, struggling to find the way to air. When he broke the surface, he had to squint to even see land. Only sheer determination pushed him to shore, and he crawled out of the sea an hour later, every muscle burning and stomach full of salt. He knew enough to feel himself being swept into his father's arms before he passed out. That night, he dreamt of falling and being helpless and the anger in his mother's eyes and the feeling of letting go. Of just sinking.
Two years later, he saw his father try his hardest not to sink. There's nothing his can say about cancer that hasn't been said a thousand times before, so Greg prefers to leave it alone. Some days, he looks at Wilson's patients and thinks that they're idiots for struggling so hard against the inevitable. Some days, he thinks they're the strongest people he's ever seen. But always he sees the raw fear in them. It's not a matter of staying alive. It's a matter of not dying. And most days, he knows what that distinction means. His father went through all of the treatments available at the time, but he died just the same. Greg was away at school when it happened. He didn't go home for the funeral. He told his mother that he couldn't. She said that she understood, and that he'd be missed. Everybody lies.
House didn't go back to PPTH for three days. Most of those three days was spent on the couch, watching his soaps. But there had been some bad moments, which included hours of being on the verge of vomiting without any release and a muscle cramp in his leg that had him screaming his throat raw. He considered it a minor miracle that the woman next door hadn't called the landlord. Or the police. But she had knocked on his door a few times that day and the next morning. When he found himself considering answering it, he decided it was time to get back to work. Anyway, it was Friday. He could just put in an appearance, torment Cuddy and his underlings, avoid the clinic at all costs, get a refill on the Vicodin, and take an early weekend. And maybe run some blood work.
"You look like crap," Cuddy greeted him as he walked through the doors.
"And you look like -."
"I don't want you anywhere near this clinic," she interrupted.
"Now you're just being mean," House pouted.
"Oh, I know how disappointed you must be. Why are you even here?"
"Mom always sad I was an accident," he answered, "but I prefer to think I have a higher purpose."
"Something to do with making my life a living hell?"
"Damn. Who gave it away?"
"Seriously, House. You look like you've lost ten pounds since Monday," Cuddy frowned.
"New hooker. She keeps me active," House answered. It was weak, he knew, but he was so damned tired. And his leg was killing him.
"Why don't you just go home? Come back Monday."
"I have some work to do."
"You have no patients."
"I know I have no patience, so why don't you get out of the way and let me do my job."
House turned towards the elevator, knowing that Cuddy was studying his every move. He did his best to ignore the feeling that she was on to him.
"Seriously, I don't want to see you near the clinic."
"Can I get that in writing?" he asked, just before the elevator doors closed.
Four hours later, Wilson found House in the cafeteria, staring at a sheet of paper.
"New patient?" Wilson asked, even though he knew that House's team hadn't accepted a new patient all week.
"Hmm?" House asked, folding up the paper and slipping it into his pocket. "What is that thing on your plate?" he grimaced.
"Beef stroganoff. I think," Wilson answered, poking the grey goop with his spork.
"It moved."
"If you're gonna spew, try to point it in an easterly direction."
"I hardly think it would compromise the bouquet of that lovely meal before you," House answered, picking off a piece of his apple-bran muffin.
"Is that all you're eating?" Wilson frowned.
"Well, look at the alternative."
"It's been four days, and you still can't keep anything down?"
"No, I can keep this down just fine. I'm just trying to keep my girlish figure."
"Yeah, you could stand to lose a few pounds. You know, if you're going for that concentration camp look. It's all the rage in the new fall line." That earned a smile from Greg, before he remembered the hot little truth pressed against his thigh. He wondered if anyone had ever done a study to prove that bad news is a carcinogen.
"You sound more and more like a girl each day," House sighed. "Pretty soon you'll switch from monster trucks to Barbies and I'll have no one to play with anymore. The pharmacy is running low on cootie shots."
"Don't you want a coffee or something?" Wilson asked, noticing that House had no drink.
"Not thirsty."
"What's going on, Greg?" Wilson finally asked, tired of stepping around the issue. He'd known House long enough to be able to tell when his friend was worried. And when House was worried, it usually meant something was seriously wrong.
"Nothing unexpected," House answered. It was the truth, in a way.
"Leg?" Wilson asked, hardly believing that it was so simple.
"What little muscle I have left has been cramping up all day. Flu put me all out of balance," House answered. People lie. He tried to justify it by telling himself that James would learn the truth, soon enough. That he had a need to justify it told him that it was wrong. He hated being wrong.
Days went quickly for House. The next Monday, he accepted three new patients. It could have been construed as an obvious cry for help, but Cuddy was so thrilled and his ducklings were so busy that no one had the time or inclination to question him. Except James Wilson, but as usual he looked on silently, monitoring Greg's health, cataloguing the many things that seemed to be going wrong in that long, lean body. But House was laughing again, as much as he ever did at any rate, and the requests for refills on the Vicodin hadn't increased. Sometimes hope has a way of blinding you from the truth. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on your take, House had no hope. He only had that determination to win, in his own terms. So he kept himself busy, waking up earlier and earlier to get a head start on hiding and getting by.
Things went on like this for two more weeks before anyone in his team decided to take action, and then it wasn't to confront House or to talk to Cuddy or even to ask Wilson what was going on with their boss. Instead, they did what House had taught them. They searched his desk for clues. House had been losing weight. He'd been more tired, and in more pain, than they had ever seen him. For days, they'd been debating about it. At first, they all put it down to the caseload, or to the simple fact that, for the first time since they'd been working in the Department of Diagnostics, there was a caseload. But a day came when House had shut himself up in his office and slept for five hours straight before waking up and puking in his garbage can, and then they had to face the fact that their boss was in trouble. Chase was sure that it was the leg, maybe another clot. Foreman thought House might be messing around with his pain management system, trying for an alternative to Vicodin. All Cameron knew was that House knew what was wrong with him and didn't seem to be doing anything to fix it, which suggested that, whatever it was, it was beyond fixing. And when Foreman found a crumpled print-out of lab results sandwiched inside of a back issue of Entertainment Weekly, Cameron cursed herself for guessing correctly.
"His creatinine and BUN are way up," Foreman frowned, deciding to keep the date of these results to himself.
"Maybe the acetaminophen in his Vicodin is causing kidney damage," Chase offered. His habit of understating the obvious.
"Differential diagnosis for weight loss, nausea, fatigue, muscle cramps, and raised levels of creatinine and BUN?" Foreman asked.
"You're forgetting hiccups and easy bruising," Wilson said from the doorway.
"When?" Cameron asked, catching her breath after having thought House had caught them.
"When he first got sick," Wilson answered. "Plus, he's been restricting his fluid and protein intake."
"So, it's chronic renal failure," Foreman sighed.
"From the pills?" Chase asked.
"No."
All four of them spun around and stared at House, the looks on their faces an equal part of surprise, guilt, and something else. Pity? Grief? He couldn't decide which was more unwelcome, so he ignored it.
"Not entirely. It's possible for acute renal failure to progress to chronic renal failure. That pesky infarction strikes again. And you could have just asked," he grinned, looking at his ransacked desk. Damn if he didn't feel a bit proud.
"We should get an abdominal CT -," Cameron began, before House cut her off.
"We should do nothing of the sort. I don't need confirmation. My kidneys are dying. I think you can trust my diagnosis on this one."
"So…dialysis?" Chase asked.
"Oh God, you already have the Little Boy Lost face on," House sighed. "No dialysis. And no transplant for the drug addict, as I'm sure Foreman would be quick to point out. I'm going with door number three."
"Which is?" Wilson asked, a twisting oh-god-what-am-I-going-to-do feeling building in his stomach.
"The slow painful death. Incredibly tacky, I know, but it'd be a shame to waste all that practice. Now, if you're done staring at me like I ran over your puppy twice with a tractor, I think I'm going to go give the good news to Cuddy," he answered, before limping away with as much jauntiness as he could muster.
When he was safely in the elevator, Greg slumped against the wall, cradling his face in his hand. That wasn't close to being the way he'd wanted to deal with this. Of course, the fact that he'd known what was happening for weeks and hadn't told James, of all people, showed him that there was a chance he had no intention of dealing with it at all. But he just couldn't imagine how the conversation would go. He'd been thinking about it. Almost every waking hour since he'd seen the lab results. Different scenarios would run through his head. Taking Wilson to a baseball game. A concert. Just a quiet night at home in front of the tv. Or somewhere safe, public. His conference room. The clinic. He'd tested different lines. "Bad news is, I'm dying. Good news is, I'm leaving the car to you." "You know how you always complain about my making your life hell? Well, no need to worry about that anymore." "That whole conversation about me burning in hell? I'll send you a postcard." He'd tried the simple truth. "I'm dying." The not-so-simple truth. "My kidneys are failing and, though there is a slim chance I could stop it, I'm just too tired and too apathetic to even try, so I'm giving up and I want you to know that you are the ONLY thing I'm going to miss."
Nothing sounded right. He'd always been crap at telling people they were dying, but this, this was even harder. He had no idea why, but it was. So he'd let it go, and now everyone knew. Except Cuddy. But he'd let Wilson take care of that. No matter how often he teased her or was deliberately cruel, House had a certain amount of affection for his boss, and he knew that it went both ways. She'd be upset if he told her the truth. He'd be upset just looking her in the eye. Wilson would be much better, for both of them. Besides, he really needed a drink.
Wilson found him nursing a Scotch, draped over his piano, playing a Jools Holland medley.
"Why won't you want dialysis?" he asked, closing the front door behind him, more grateful than ever that House had given him the key.
"You know why," House answered, running his hands over the keys.
"No, I really don't, and I'd appreciate an honest answer from you," Wilson returned, his voice sharp and carrying so much pain and anger that House fumbled the melody.
"I'm sorry you found out like that."
"Or that I found out at all?" Wilson accused, sitting beside House on the piano bench.
"You would have found out eventually," House reminded him. He could feel Wilson shudder beside him, imagining that scene. They were both remembering one hellish morning at the start of Greg's recovery when James had come into the hospital room and found him crumpled in a heap on the floor, white as a sheet and drenched in sweat. If it hadn't been for the shallow gasps for air and the tears pooling in his eyes, James would have sworn his friend was dead.
"You couldn't have told me?" James asked, but it came out like the accusation that it was. They should have been past this, by now.
House looked closely at his friend. His only friend. If he was honest with himself, James Wilson was the love of his life. True, he'd always love Stacey. He had wanted to grow old with her, to build a family with her. But he'd acknowledged the fact that she was such a small part of his life. She was the woman he came home to at night. But…she wasn't his home. James, more than anyone he'd ever known, was. He was always there for him. He always knew how to handle him. He always knew how to make him laugh. How to make him feel safe. It was a very different love than the one he'd had with Stacey, but it meant so much more to him in the long run. Could he have truly looked James in the eye and said goodbye.
"No. I really couldn't."
"So, why are you giving up?" James pressed. "With dialysis you could –."
"I could spend the rest of my limited days in pain and in the hospital. If that's the only way I can stay alive, I'd rather not bother."
"How can you be so…selfish!"
"Selfish?" Greg snapped. "Jesus, you have no idea."
"What? You're just giving up. No thought for the people who might need you to stick around. Seems pretty goddamn selfish to me."
"Is this the same sweet talking you give to your wives just before they leave?" House snarled. "Or your patients? The ones that finally make the decision that it's time? You make them feel like shit for having the strength to say that they're ready to die?"
"It's not the same, and you know it. My patients have no hope! You…you just want to give up. Most stubborn man in the world, but you're so ready to give up!"
"Oh, don't give me that shit!" House shouted. "You know more than anyone how hard I've held on! It's just not working anymore. Ok? It's not working and I'm not going to put myself through it. Not again."
"Oh, so it's a weakness thing," Wilson sneered. "You don't want to be a patient again. Helpless. Everyone you work with staring at you with concern and pity. So you're going to throw in the towel to keep some dignity."
"There's nothing dignified about it," House answered. He'd had this conversation before, but never imagined having it with Wilson, who really ought to know better by now.
"So bodies fall apart. You can still control when. You could get better."
"You know, the good thing about knowing everything that could go wrong with my body is that it saves me from having to rely on other people for answers. The bad thing though is the knowledge that something is going wrong and there's nothing I can do about it." Greg nearly hated James for making him do this, but he pressed on now. There was no way to stop the damage this was doing to them. "Do you know what it feels like? No. Stupid question. Maybe the worst you've gone through is a self-diagnosis of crabs. Forget having to be the one to come up with the brilliant idea that my muscles were dying. Lying there, knowing that I was seconds away from a heart attack…you can't imagine what that felt like. Staring at some numbers, knowing that one plus one equals 'I might not wake up tomorrow'. And staring at death like that, believe me my life wasn't flashing before my eyes. There was no time. There was only anger that I hadn't caught it earlier, and that it was out of my hands. But this time, it's in my hands. Not because there's some miracle cure waiting for me, but because I knew that it was coming. When your patients thank you for telling them they're dying, where do you think that's coming from? Shock? Gratitude for your dulcet tones and kind eyes? No. No, they thank you because now they don't have the uncertainty hanging over them anymore. They know they're dying. That doesn't make them any more willing to go. But it does make them look at themselves honestly, and the chance to do that, even for the briefest moment before dying, is a prize."
"I don't know what you're saying to me," James nearly shouted.
"I'm saying that…I don't know," Greg sighed. "I don't know when it's going to happen and I don't know how to…die. But it's going to happen, and I can either take the long road or the right road. I've been running from this for so long, James. Since I was a kid. I was running from it even before the infarc. Maybe that's why I was so hell-bent on keeping my leg. And now that fear is killing me. So, in my moment of honesty, I've come to the conclusion that there's nothing worth all this. Nothing in me, and nothing in my life."
"You could get better," James repeated, a whisper, grief and hurt rippling over his heart and stealing his breath.
"There is no better! There is only keeping level. You know how it would work. I'd have to give up Vicodin, so I'd be in constant pain. I'd have to stop working. I'd have to stop everything. For what, James? For who?"
"You could still consult."
"It'd be pathetic."
"You could still be my best friend," Wilson tried at last. It had been waiting to come out all evening. 'Live. Live for me," Wilson wanted to demand. He'd held it in because it was selfish and it was pathetic and it was the one thing in the world that he'd kill for. But now…maybe he wasn't the one dying, but he felt like he was and that this was his moment of honesty. Threshold of revelation.
"Jesus. Don't you know that it's harder for me to watch you worry about me every hour of every day than it is to just say goodbye? And that's saying something, James. It really is," Greg answered, silently begging his friend to understand.
"I could take it," James said, defiant. "I could handle it."
"I couldn't. I've been there."
"But it wasn't so bad," James insisted. The infarction had, indeed, been bad. That whole year had been hell on both of them, but they had gotten through. They'd never been the same around each other. In fact, they'd both changed fundamentally. But they had done it together. They'd had to.
"You're a terrible liar. No wonder you always get caught."
"House," Wilson sighed.
"James, I can't. I mean it. But I'll be here in the morning, if you still want to fight. Right now, I'm really very tired." It was a cheap shot, but one he knew would get James out of his house.
"I'll tuck you in," Wilson smiled sadly.
"Don't be a smart ass."
"You want a kiss goodnight?"
"And don't be a tease."
"Fine. We'll talk in the morning."
Morning came sooner than House had expected, the phone waking him two hours before he normally left for work.
"This had better be good," he groused, without bothering to say hello. He could count on his fingers the number of people who'd call him, and he was willing to bet that nothing they could say to him would be worth waking up before dawn.
"Greg, I know it's early, but I this is the only chance I'll have to talk to you for a few days," Wilson greeted.
"What's wrong?"
"Julie's mother died. We have to go to Sacramento. We're leaving in a few minutes."
"How's she doing?" House asked, though he was certain James could tell he didn't really care. Julie was a nice enough woman, according to Wilson, but House really didn't see it.
"Still in shock, I think. Listen, I've gotta go. But…we'll talk when I get back."
House knew what Wilson was saying. Or asking. Would he still be there when he got back?
"Yeah, yeah. I'm going back to bed," House answered, before hanging up the phone. Needless to say, he didn't go back to sleep. When he finally rolled out of bed forty minutes later to go to the bathroom and see he was, once again, peeing blood, he wished he'd come up with something better for his last words with Wilson.
"Thank god you're here," Cuddy greeted him when he walked through the doors.
"Ah, I know you're jonesing for your 9AM booty call, but I'm gonna need to see a blood test and have cash up front," House answered. Honestly, he didn't know what he was doing there, other than waiting. Killing time.
"We have a kidney coming in. You need to get prepped!" Cuddy continued, grabbing House by the arm and steering him towards the elevator.
"What?" House asked, genuinely shocked.
"A kidney. For you. Come on!" Cuddy urged, hitting the button again and again.
"I wasn't aware that the transplant committee had rethought their stance on drug addicts getting new organs. Unless you lied," House mocked, his brain still wrapping itself around what she was saying.
"It's from a living donor," Cuddy clarified.
"No," House answered.
"Are you crazy!" Cuddy screeched as she tried to keep the elevator doors from closing, separating House from a chance at a new life.
"Where is he?" House demanded.
"I have no idea what you -."
"Where. Is. He," he asked again.
"It's too late," Cuddy sighed. "He's already in recovery. Now, are you going to accept this, or are you going to go make an ass of yourself, possibly hurting your friend in the process, before realizing that you HAVE to accept this?"
House simply entered the elevator and pushed the button for the 3rd floor.
"Option B, then," Cuddy answered.
"You're a real son of a bitch," House growled, his voice barely breaking through the cloud of anesthetics that hung over James Wilson.
"You're just sore that I fooled you," Wilson mumbled.
"I can't believe you did this," House continued, his voice rising in anger. But he wasn't angry that he'd been lied to. Or that Wilson had gone against his wishes. It was something about seeing his friend in a hospital bed, hooked to IVs, fighting to stay awake. It was something about having forced this sacrifice of his friend. It was something about being grateful. And being in debt. And being in love.
"A kidney, I can spare," Wilson shrugged, or at least tried to. "You, on the other hand…"
"How did you know we are a match?" House interrupted, unable to hear it at the moment.
"I pulled your file."
"I seem to remember a speech about friends not spying on other friends," House pouted. Logically, he knew that Wilson was lying to him. He'd have had to test himself before they'd talked the night before. Maybe he knew all along, and was just waiting for the day when their friendship would be put to this test. Thinking about it now, House realized that this test was inevitable, and one that they both knew would always come. That James cared for him was undeniable, but House had noticed long ago that his friend would never push him too far. About his sarcasm. About his pills. About his scruffy face and wrinkled clothes, his drinking and smoking, his bitterness and insomnia. For someone who so obviously loved him, Wilson let him get away with an awful lot of shit. And the reason was because both of them knew that when House did fall, Wilson would always be there for him. Always. In all the ways that House so often failed him, and failed himself.
"Ok, Foreman pulled your file," Wilson smiled tiredly, drawing House back into the conversation. "I just happened to be reading over his shoulder."
"He is soo fired."
"No, he's not."
"You really…"
"Hey, shouldn't you be getting ready for surgery?" Wilson asked.
"Like I really want your kidney polluting my system. I'll turn all…nice. I'll have women crawling all over me. It'll totally eat away at my free time. Pretty soon, I'll be marrying people left and right. Visiting patients. Sucking at Game Boy and having questionable tastes in music. We can't have that."
"House."
"And God forbid my body rejects your kidney. You'll be giving me that wounded puppy dog look for the rest of my days, and I'd really rather…"
"House." House looked at Wilson's face for what felt like the first time. This was no wounded puppy dog. This was a steely determination that House had always admired in his friend. And behind it was a grief so unspeakable that merely witnessing it took your breath away.
"Why the whole dead mom ruse?" House finally asked.
"You'd expect me to be there for the surgery."
"You actually thought I wouldn't guess what was going on?"
"It was a shot," Wilson yawned.
"I better let you rest."
"You better get into the operating room, is what you meant to say right there," Wilson warned.
"You took an awfully big risk, doing this," House murmured.
"It's not that dangerous for me. People donate kidneys all the time."
"That's not what I meant," House snapped, staring Wilson in the eye.
"I know," he sighed. "You tend to hate people who save your life. But…you're worth it."
"You're high."
"So are you."
Greg House stared at his best friend. Was this the same betrayal? The same heroic disregard of his will and wishes that had destroyed his life with Stacey? Both had forced him into something. Both had known they were risking his love but had chosen his life. Was there a distinction? Could there be forgiveness? Was there anything to forgive? Greg closed his eyes and looked for that moment of honesty, for the threshold of revelation. The truth was, House didn't want to die. Maybe his life wasn't at all what he had imagined it would be, but he still wanted it. He wanted it enough to admit that he wanted better. His decision to let go wasn't courageous. It was still the same old fear that had kept him running for so long, only this time he feared the type of life he would be forced to live. Now, though, James was offering an alternative. There would be pain and inconvenience, more of some pills and fewer of others. He'd have to severely curb his Vicodin intake or find another alternative. And Wilson would have the right to be entirely insufferable. 'You can't treat patients like that; that's my kidney you're using!'
"What are you thinking?" James mumbled, voice thick with sleep.
"Shh. My life is passing before my eyes," House barked.
Christmas dinners. Space monkeys. Cuddy's low-cut blouses. Cripple jokes. Differential diagnoses. James, planted on his leather couch. James, blushing over nurses and wives. James, hooked to an IV and minus one kidney and waiting for his best friend to say something.
"I'll see you when I wake up," House answered, before shutting the door behind him.