The Last Thing
He didn't remember how he got home and at this point, he really wouldn't care if he remembered how he woke up this morning. He was in the wrong bed, that and there was a kid staring at him but otherwise, everything else might as well have been a pot induced haze. He cured the patient. He hung out. Actually, ex that last thought, Wilson paid them to take him out. Wilson. If he was in the mood, he would have chased down the Renaissance knight, stolen his sword, and hollered at the top of his lungs that his best friend was the bane of his existence.
How did he get home? Did he take his motorcycle? That wouldn't explain his wallet's lack of 100 bucks. How many drinks did he have? He insulted a hooker, but was it a guy or a girl who spilled the Bloody Mary on his head and the Martini down his shirt? He made sure to slam the cane down harder on the wooden floor as he stumbled along the walls, making sure that Wilson and his guest were aware of his presence. His quest for attention was granted when a sleepy, bed ruffled Wilson came out from the room.
"House?"
"No, it's cupid come to deliver you and your little whore to the sanctities in the world of love."
Those brown puppy dog eyes stared at him in concern, more awake now, giving him a headache when his mental image were of them filled with hurt as the blonde harpy laughed, stomping on the pieces of that man's heart when she walked away without looking back.
"House, you're drunk again."
He wanted to yell at him to go away. He wanted to scream and shout, whack him with the cane, do anything just to make him go away. He didn't want him to come, support him, be there for him, always caring and cleaning up his messes when he never asked him to. He didn't want him back. He didn't want Wilson back. He didn't want Wilson to be there…knowing that now, just like everything else, he's the second leg. Wilson will leave. Wilson always leaves. Because he's always messing everything up.
"Are you alright—Y-You're crying?!"
He was?! He made his hand move. He made the fingers feel the stubble on his chin then up to his cheeks. They were wet. He was crying. How long had it been since he cried? Had he ever cried? Why? Why was he crying? The cane slid out from under him and he lost his grip on the wall. His bad leg, even numbed by the buzzing alcohol running through his system, screamed out in pain.
"HOUSE?!"
A loud crash sounded through the apartment as two bodies thudded to the floor. Warm arms wrapped around him and he nuzzled into it. Blame it on the alcohol. Yeah. He would do that tomorrow. Blame everything on the alcohol. Blame Wilson being here as a hallucination that the alcohol at work. Wilson wouldn't be here holding him. He shouldn't be here at all. He should still be back in his room, having sex with his little blonde soul sucker. Sam should be running out at any moment, whispering with all the contempt in her voice for his living, and telling Wilson to hurry up and just put a sleeping bag out for him. Wilson isn't tightening his arms around. Wilson isn't sitting down on the floor with him, allowing his bad leg's weight to rest on his thigh, cradling his head and checking to make sure there were no abrasions from the fall. Wilson isn't running his hands through his hair whispering apologies. No. Wilson isn't here. Wilson isn't here. His hands wildly groped out now. He was dully aware of the Not Wilson's yelp of pain when his fist collided with the Not Wilson's face. He scrambled up. Not Wilson was yelling to him now but he didn't care. Wilson wasn't there. Wilson wasn't there. Wilson was never there when House wanted him there. Wilson left him when he needed him. Because Wilson needed the blond pretty girls that could still maneuver themselves into all the positions of the Karma Sutra that his bad leg would be amputated for.
He ran. Somehow, probably looking retarded or stabbed to death, he ran. He made it to his room. He slammed the door shut and locked it, sliding down slowly to the floor. Pain, blinding pain from his leg. It smothered out the pain that was screaming out from the annoying organ that he wanted to stop beating every single hour of the day.
The patient. The patient's boyfriend. The boyfriend of three years that the other left for a pretty blond girl. Wilson was his. Wilson has been his for 20 years. Wilson left him 5 times for each of his wives. Wilson left him for Amber. Wilson will leave him again for Sam. Not Wilson was pounding on the door. Not Wilson was shouting his name
He curled up and sobbed. He didn't try and be quiet anymore. He just cried. He whispered to himself but maybe he was talking out loud. The buzz of booze makes everything seem too loud. Maybe Not Wilson heard him. Not Wilson stopped pounding on the door. Not Wilson stopped yelling. He heard Not Wilson leave.
Good. He'll wake up, pop the hangover pills, and walk out tomorrow to see the soulless harpy and her faithful sidekick at the kitchen table laughing. He'll ignore them. Then he'll go back to his own apartment. He won't bother Wilson anymore. He won't even bother Wilson with the packing. He stood up, but all the could remember was the floor. That seems to be his best friend now. The floor, reintroduced to him through all the pains, all the beatings, and all the drinks and pills he wished had killed him. Not Wilson was back. He kicked through the door. Not Wilson was kneeling on the floor gingerly lifting his prone body into his hold. Not Wilson was crying. His mouth was talking.
"I did it for you. You said I should do it and I did."
"Yeah, yeah I know House I know." Not Wilson was holding him up against his slightly squishy chest. Not Wilson was warm.
"You didn't have to pay. I would have done it. I would have gone. You said it was for you. I'd do it for you. I did. I did it for you."
"I know House. I know." Not Wilson was crying harder now.
"When I wake up, I wonder if I should call this a nightmare or a daydream."
"House…I'm real. I'm here." Not Wilson was blinking at him now.
"I really don't want to wake up right now." He nuzzled into the warmth. He liked that Not Wilson was warm just like the real Wilson.
"House, I'm not a dream. I'm here." Those eyes at him with a silent pleading. Wilson looked at him with those eyes before. He didn't like that look. It made Wilson look more pathetic than he really was. Wilson wasn't pathetic. He was just kicked into the closet by life and his savior complex.
"I really don't want to wake up right now."
"I'm not a dream. Why do you think I'm a dream?"
He felt his cheeks pull up. He was smiling. Smiling at the Not Wilson and falling asleep in Not Wilson's arms.
"Because Wilson isn't here anymore. Wilson left for Sam. Wilson wouldn't stay for this anymore. He never did, and never will. Wilson left for Samber."
He felt Not Wilson tense. Maybe Not Wilson gets it now. Wilson is gone. Wilson is gone.
He was falling asleep. He hopes when he wakes up his leg won't hate him too much. Wilson would want him to get to work on time. It was warm. He really liked warm. Even if it was Not Wilson.
"I'm so sorry."
"s'kay."
"I'm so sorry House."
"S'kay."
"I'm not a dream."
"m'know."
"Then why?"
" 'cause."
"Why?"
" 'cause Wilson d'unno."
"I don't know what."
"I love him."
Not Wilson chuckled.
"I asked you to marry me."
"Ring fit fine."
Brown eyes widened and he saw the surprise in his fading consciousness.
"You wore the ring?!"
"s'here." He nudged his hand into view, showing the small diamond on his ring finger. "Wilson, never gave chance to answer."
"Why didn't you tell me this?"
"Yer not Wilson."
"Why didn't you tell him this." Not Wilson amended.
He gave the not Wilson a small smile and with great effort, he felt his body lift up. Not Wilson leaned down and for the smallest seconds, he pressed their lips together. Not Wilson's lips were soft and smelled like mouthwash.
He fell back, the rest of his consciousness slipping away with him.
"Why?"
He gave the Not Wilson a sad smile. 'Because it's the last thing I want us to be.'