AUTHOR'S NOTE: So if you've been in the House/Wilson fandom for a long time you may have read this. I started rereading it recently and realized I still really really like it, so I thought I'd post it here in my old stomping grounds and see if anyone else does too. The whole story's about 25,000 words overall, written episodically; I'll be posting in 11 parts like I did on {lol} LiveJournal years ago. Apologies in advance if I missed any formatting or lj-cut tags, I'm reworking them as I reread. :P
BLACK KNIGHT / PROLOGUE
If it has ever been taken up as an option, the black knight has a tendency to remain in play. - Kay Redfield Jamison, Night Falls Fast
What worries him the most is the idea that it wasn't a proper suicide attempt.
For years the memory has colored the way he's seen himself - as someone who both survived a suicide attempt and still harbors the ability to try again.
But if no one even knows you did it, is it a suicide attempt? He didn't take a lot of pills, he didn't slash his wrists - he didn't even go to hospital or see a doctor.
He just had a loaded gun to his head.
And yes, he started to pull the trigger - but he didn't.
He chickened out, so did he really try to kill himself?
No matter how many times he runs that afternoon through his head, it doesn't change anything. He's very clear on the chain of events; he's unclear on how exactly one would classify it.
He closes his eyes and it all plays again.
He goes into his friend's father's study, slides open the desk drawer, takes out the handgun. Tears are running down his face (though his present self does not dwell on why) as he contemplates the weight of the gun, the word COLT.
Impulsively he raises the gun to his head and presses the barrel harder and harder against his temple, hoping perhaps that he if he just wants it badly enough, he can be rid of himself without the commitment of pulling the trigger.
He hesitates, his finger hovering, battling with himself to both just do it and stop!
Some remaining sliver of self-preservation makes him slam the gun onto the desk. He shoves the gun back into the drawer and runs out of the room, and out of that house, forever.
For years he regrets not dying more than he regrets losing the friend, but as time passes the incident becomes almost comforting. He almost died. After that nothing could touch him; and surely nothing could get as bad as that again…and if it did, well he almost did it once, he could certainly go through with it now if he really wanted to…
But now, for the first time in many years, he doesn't just wish to die. He wishes that the fifteen-year-old boy in that study had done it for him, had spared him these years of misery laced with too little joy, and he starts to hate that boy for being a coward.
And the self-loathing infects his one pure moment, and he wonders if he isn't just fooling himself. He would never be brave enough to (almost) kill himself - he had just been a stupid kid, a stupid kid who thought his stupid problem was worth dying over.
If that stupid kid had just finished the job, he wouldn't be here now, with this problem that really was worth dying over.
So why doesn't he just do it now?
"Coward," he whispers as he shoves the box back into its hiding place.
FIRST CONFERENCE / NEW ORLEANS
He stares down at the street below and wonders what it would be like to plummet twenty stories.
He's never given serious consideration to any method besides the gun, but sometimes when opportunity knocks you should answer the door.
He imagines falling, his back to the street; it's enough to know what's coming, he doesn't need to see it. And he doesn't want to see the person he might hit, though in his fantasy someone notices him falling, and screams, and people are alerted to get out of the way.
Would he fall straight down, onto the sidewalk? Or if he pushed off the ledge, would he maybe hit a car? He doesn't know which would be better; surely hitting the roof of a car would be just as instantly fatal, right?
Why didn't they teach things like this in med school?
It sickens him how poignant it will be, the promising young man fresh out of medical school, wiped out in his prime.
And it really sickens him that people will think it's because of the divorce; he will begrudgingly admit that it's a icatalyst/I, but no one should give his estranged "love" that much credit. She doesn't have the power to kill him - no one has that power, except himself, and it's about damned time he exercised that power.
He hears laugher in the hallway. Everybody's been having a fucking blast at this thing, and it's getting to be quite grating. He hasn't had a real friend since high school.
It's not that he's actively avoided making friends - he's just so tightly wound in his own miserable little cocoon that no one seems worth the time. And ever since the last time he was this close to death, he's felt alienated; like everyone knows that he doesn't really want to be there anymore, so why waste time on him?
But no one does know that, because he's never told anyone. No one knows the shit that goes through his head every fucking minute of every fucking day, so when he dies they will just think it's because of "heartbreak" and no one will even think it's that odd.
Just another kid who couldn't deal with a romance gone wrong.
He tries to tell himself that it doesn't matter - he'll be dead, what the fuck will he know or care what people believe to be the cause?
But he does care. He wants so fucking badly to mean something to someone, to leave a hole in someone's life when he's gone.
More laughter, and footsteps running down the hall. He squeezes his eyes shut in anger; dammit, he wanted a clear head for this.
Fuck it, he thinks, pushing away from the window.
Might as well get wasted first.
WHITE KNIGHT
Well this is just kind of funny.
He rests his head against the cool concrete of the holding cell wall and wonders if he could have put up enough of a fight to get the cops to shoot him. If nothing else he could probably have grabbed one of their guns and done it himself-
Closing his eyes, he slowly starts to whack his head against the wall. It really does no good to think about all this now, but honestly he doesn't know what else to think about. He just knows he has to get out of here and end this before he has to hear about it from that bitch, or her mother, or anyone else.
He doesn't want to have to explain himself; there's simply nothing to explain. This is just the way it fucking is, and there's no sense looking for reasons because knowing why won't change anything.
Really though he doesn't regret this little incident at all. It had felt damn good to yell and throw that bottle and just let a tiny corner of the world know that he was angry, just too fucking angry to live. It had felt damn good…
A couple of hours pass; a few more guys are shoved into the cell, but they ignore him and he ignores them.
He's starting to eye the others and fantasize antagonizing one of them into a riot when the cell opens again. "James Wilson?"
He stands up warily. The cop jerks his head towards the door, and Wilson follows him out. He has no idea what to expect from any of this, at this point he's just along for the ride.
There are several people milling around, and Wilson is vaguely aware of one approaching him. "I took care of it," the guy says.
He's almost unsure that the guy's talking to him. "I'm…sorry?"
"I took care of it," he says again, raising his voice playfully. "You're a free man."
Wilson twitches slightly. "Um…thanks."
The stranger cocks his head. "Talkative one, aren't you?" He sticks his hand out. "Greg House."
Wilson shakes his hand, trying not to tremble. "James Wilson," he mumbles, confused, unsettled and intrigued by this person's sudden appearance, sudden generosity and sudden blue eyes.
One of the policemen gets his attention, and he dully signs whatever's put in front of him. He's not really listening to anything, as he'll be dead soon so who the fuck cares?
He accepts his belongings and walks back over to his apparent new friend. "So, Wilson," the guy says cheerfully, "I don't know about you, but I could use an early breakfast."
Wilson nods dumbly. He's drawn to this person, he can feel it, and he doesn't think it's just because the guy sprung him. Though he's certainly curious as to why a person would bail a stranger out like that…
Certainly he doesn't want Wilson to….Surely he doesn't want Wilson-
Wilson feels a rush he hasn't felt in years, and the emotion of it overrides all thought and memory. It's also been years since he's looked forward to anything; but he's certainly looking forward to breakfast.
VELOCITY-ONE
V1 is the maximum speed during takeoff at which a pilot can safely stop the aircraft without leaving the runway ... The decision must be made to continue or abort-
He's pretty sure most airplane crashes happen while the plane is attempting to land; so there's still hope.
…Okay so he doesn't really want the plane to crash; he has little desire to take two hundred innocent lives with him. But he feels good, for the first time in a very long while, and to die on this plane would just be the icing on the cake of this very strange weekend.
House had blown off the conference - all too happily, it seemed - to hang out with Wilson, and they'd wandered around the city and stuffed their faces and listened to music and just generally had a great time. Since he didn't really know the guy, Wilson had felt free to be himself, perhaps for the first time ever.
Wilson will never see him again, of course; despite the phone number tucked in his wallet and the knowledge that they live just a few hours apart, life doesn't work that way. It's enough that Wilson got to enjoy himself for a bit, and he feels okay now. He connected with someone; and who knows, maybe House will notice his name in an article somewhere and miss him.
The thought of House lamenting the fact that he could never see him again fills Wilson with an absurd pleasure. It's crazy to be so attached to someone so quickly, but why fight it at this point?
The plane lands smoothly on the runway, but it doesn't dampen Wilson's mood. Even seeing her in the terminal doesn't get him down; he would really rather have just taken a cab, but hey whatever.
He retrieves his bag and they walk silently to the car.
Staring contentedly out the window, lost in his own thoughts, he doesn't even know she's said anything.
"James!" she snaps.
"Oh, sorry, what?" He doesn't look away from the window; it's a beautiful day outside. Everything's really falling to place-
"I said some jackass has called the house three times," she says irritably.
His heart stops for at least five seconds. "…Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, you fucking guys now too?"
He manages to find the breath to say, "It's-about a job." She rolls her eyes in disbelief but doesn't say any more.
When they get home, Wilson doesn't even go into the house. He carries his bags to his car; she completely ignores him and goes inside, slamming the door behind her.
He sits in the car, at a complete loss. It had to have been House calling; only he would keep calling back when she must have been so clearly annoyed with him.
He smiles even as his heart sinks. He already feels like he knows House so well…
God damn it. He had been planning on checking into the Sheraton; live it up, spend some of his money before she gets even more than the half she's expecting.
But…what if he'll need the money? He's not hurting for it, but paying her off will take a chunk, and-and-
He can't breathe. Why is he even considering this? Why is he even imagining a tomorrow? It was all so fucking clear an hour ago, why is he panicking now?
He starts the car and peels out just to be doing something. He drives around for an hour or so, his mind an agony of indecision, and finally pulls into the Comfort Inn. A fair compromise…
Staring at the phone on the nightstand, he slowly pulls his wallet out. He unfolds the piece of paper and reads the number for the thousandth time, written much more legibly than the one he handed House. And yet House had deciphered it, and called him-House wanted to talk to him, maybe even see him again…maybe they could be friends-
And then we'll ride our unicorns off to Happy Gay Rainbow Fucking Wonderful Awesome Land, he thinks bitterly. Whywhywhywhy is he even thinking about this?
He should stick with the plan. Closing his eyes, he tries to remind himself why it's for the best.
You're a liar, a cheat, an adulterer. You're worthless. You won't miss anyone and no one will miss you.
His eyes open miserably. But that's not true anymore, is it?
Logically, he should leave. Actually, he should have left years ago, but that's water under the bridge now.
And still-well, what if he could have a bit more fun? The last couple of days had been marred slightly by his overwhelming desire to kiss House, who had clearly been flirting with him but made no actual moves. Maybe he could just kiss him and see what happened; dead now, dead then, did it really make a difference?
He picks up the phone and dials before he can think about it further.
He's never hated himself more than he does right now.
VOODOO
He hangs up the phone and stares dully at it.
Another person in the room would see none of Wilson's turmoil reflected in his outer features; he is too confused, blindsided, unsure of himself to do anything but blink when necessary.
That call's probably going to cost as much as the room, he muses.
Worth every cent, though - how they could find so many things to talk about so soon and so easily he has no idea, but they talked and talked until he could hear House's stomach rumbling from hundreds of miles away.
Wilson is not hungry. Before they hung up they made plans for House to come visit; only a month or so away. And House had said he would call tomorrow; not knowing where he might be - and unwilling to admit as much to House - Wilson insisted he be the one to call him.
"Promise?" House said playfully. "...Promise," Wilson responded, his heart moving even further up his throat.
Wilson closes his eyes.
What is this?
If this were happening with a woman, it would be crystal clear. They'd fallen for each other, she was gonna come visit, they'd fuck and maybe start a relationship.
Wilson glances at his carry-on bag, thinking of the souvenirs that lay within.
He rummages and pulls out a voodoo doll, wondering if they can be used for good as well as evil. There are no instructions with the doll, just a bundle of pins attached to its side.
Not that he believes in stuff like voodoo anyway.
He stares at the doll's black eyes.
He's just in desperate need of a distraction, that's all. His body is at war with itself, simultaneously wanting to die right now and never suffer the heartache that lies ahead but also unable to resist seeing what happens.
Even though he knows a world of heartache lies ahead; he can feel it stretching before him like his suddenly extended life.
He carefully undoes the bundle of pins, extracting a promising-looking one.
Even though he knows this is his future, maybe it can be worth it. Maybe he can find enough joy with this stranger to make it worthwhile.
He pushes the pin into the doll's heart.