NOT slash (well, I didn't intend any).
Songfic: Nightminds, Missy Higgins (Australian singer/songwriter). I DON'T OWN THIS SONG. But it's great.
Set during 'Detox'. Wilson reflects about House.
R&R! Pretty please...
Just lay it all down
Put your face into my neck and
Let it fall out
I know
I know
I know
Wilson sighed into his hands and tried to concentrate. But he could only think of House. Stupid, stupid House and his stubbornness. Maybe he had been wrong to think that…that what? Was proving that he was an addict going to help anyone? Inside, Wilson knew that House would not give up. He hated pain. But heartache…painkillers couldn't take that away. Not that he hadn't tried. Wilson cursed himself and picked up his pen. Jennifer Keller, Stage Two Breast Cancer.
Why wouldn't House ever let him in? Because Stacy had burned him once? Wilson told himself over and over that he could handle whatever House threw at him. He wanted to be able to handle it.
Stacy couldn't handle it, whispered a little voice at the back of his mind. Wilson had once admired how strong Stacy was, how sharp, how well suited to House. They were the perfect couple.
But she had left him.
Left him for Wilson who had patched him up as best he could; everything in its wrong place. Their odd little friendship worked, though, didn't it? He knew House would stand by him, and he hoped House knew he would do the same. But what kind of person would put his friend through what House was going through?
"It's for the best," he muttered.
For who?
I knew before you got home.
This world you're in now,
It doesn't have to be alone, I'll get there somehow, 'cause
I know
I know
I know
At around nine, Wilson gave up the paperwork and tentatively knocked on House's door. He was lying on the floor, leg propped up on the chair, his broken hand cradled in his lap.
"Can I come in?" he asked quietly. House turned his head, his piercing blue eyes gazing at his friend.
"Since when did you ever ask?" he answered, ever observant. Wilson sat on the chair and watched the man. His eyes were red-rimmed and he looked…
"You look like crap."
"Whatever happened to the kind tactful Doctor Wilson?" Wilson crossed his arms and opened his mouth. "I don't want the Mother Hen act or the interrogation, okay?" One of Beethoven's symphonies (Wilson didn't know - but it was loud and angry) was blaring through his iPod's speakers, filling the room with empty noise. The floor hummed.
"H-how are you?" House fiddled with his cane.
"Absolutely top hat," he said in a terrible British accent. Wilson forced a laugh and House looked at him.
"You don't look that great either. Same tie, three days in a row. What happened – Julie cut them up again?"
"No, I…" He stopped when he realised House didn't want him to answer. They sat there in companionable silence, the light not fighting the shadow.
When even springtime feels cold
But I will learn to breathe
This ugliness you see,
We can both be there and
We can both share the dark.
And in our honesty, together we will rise
Out of our nightminds and into the light
At the end of the fight…
Sometimes as he lay on House's lumpy couch, trying to fall asleep, he thought of what he had been like before the infarction. Pretty much the same, he concluded. But happier. Content. He didn't hate the world then. Well, not that much, said his brain, he just thought it was stupid. And it was. It really, really was. How cruel people like Vogler were billionaires. How children died of cancer.
How people die inside and you can only watch.
Wilson sometimes smiled to himself and thought that he was getting more like Cameron everyday. Trying to save the world. Why else would have gone into oncology? Stop the inevitable. Prevent the unpreventable. Yeah, that was him. Crusader for mankind.
Sometimes he wanted to curl into a little ball and hide in the darkness, ashamed of himself – of his inability to help House. Other times he walked into the hospital with his head held up high, determined. And walked out dejected, his tail between his legs. House bested him every time.
Every bloody time.
You were blessed by
A different kind of inner view: it's all magnified
The highs would make you fly and the
Lows make you want to die.
It hurt to remember, but he couldn't help himself. Memories spun in his tired mind, laughing at him, teasing him, torturing him.
He remembered his first wife.
She used to tilt her head when she smiled.
He could remember the day he met House.
He could remember the first time he slept on House's lumpy couch.
He could remember the day House told him Stacy was moving in.
She made him happier than I ever did.
He could remember how it had always been House picking up the pieces as his life fell apart.
He could remember the day Stacy overruled House's wishes and he had the operation.
He could remember all the nights he had spent at House's getting stoned after another failure. Too many failures.
Never probing too far. They got drunk together, each drowning private sorrows.
He could remember the day House died and how a part of him died too.
It hurt to remember.
And I was once there,
Hanging from that very ledge
Where you are standing,
So I know
I know
I know
It's easier to let go
"Did you see what Cuddy was wearing?" He was trying today, which meant the pain was worse. Wilson played along.
"I know!"
"There should be a law made about…" He was out of breath and House leaned against the wall, struggling. Wilson stood close to him, partly to catch him if he fell, partly to block his friend from the eyes of the world. He couldn't tell.
"You okay?" he whispered softly. House nodded, his eyes closed. His face was ashen. "You don't have to-"
"No clinic duty," House snapped. Wilson nodded silently.
"Is it worth it?" But House didn't answer. Together they walked down the hospital wing, Wilson standing slightly closer and wincing at every painful step.
But I will learn to breathe
This ugliness you see,
We can both be there and
We can both share the dark.
And in our honesty, together we will rise
Out of our nightminds and into the light
At the end of the fight…
"So what have you learned?" House looked better now, and Wilson felt less guilty.
"I'm addicted." Wilson wanted to leap into the air and shout as he followed his friend into the office. He folded his arms.
"And…?" House looked at Wilson, his eyes steady.
"I'm not going to quit."
I'm not going to quit.
I'm not going to quit.
I'm not going to quit.
Wilson sat at his desk, glaring at the computer screen. He was angry, angry that he had put House through a week of agony and come out with nothing. Angry at himself for being so stupid. For believing in his friend.
I'm not going to quit.
Was he really that reliant on the drug? Or was he doing it to spite him?
I'm not going to quit.
Wilson sighed, thinking. Maybe…maybe this worked. Maybe he could just walk one step behind House, ready to catch him when he fell.
He still smiled sometimes. Laughed, too. He even got excited occasionally. Granted, it was usally about baseball or whatever sport was in season, but it was still excitement. Pleasure. They had a good time together.
Maybe it was for the best. Because it worked, didn't it?
Yeah, it did. Wilson smiled stupidly at himself. He would stop trying to change – fix – House (or at least, for awhile), and they would just get on with their lives. He was not God, and even though he sometimes played God, he just wasn't 'godly' enough to make it work.
There was a baseball game on Saturday.
His smile widened.
And in our honesty, together we will rise
Out of our nightminds and into the light
At the end of the fight…
Now...R&R! I love reviews.