We are going to play a game.
We are going to pretend that when Wilson left his job at PPTH at the beginning of season 5 that was it. He never came back and House had to suffer the next 5 years without him.
I'd like to pretend that this story picks up after those five years...
(p.s. As always I do not own House M.D. or any of its delicious creations. Bother)
House was just about to order a drink, well his fifth drink actually, at the bar when he heard a laugh that sounded all too familiar. And all too long ago.
Sitting in a corner booth, arm around a young blonde girl, was Dr. James Wilson; oncologist.
"What can I get you? Same again?"
House ignored the barman's questions and hobbled over to the table, not yet sure quite what he was going to say.
He settled on the traditional 'House' approach,
"My God! It's Wilson!" He announced loudly to the entire bar, leaning dramatically on his cane. He looked over at the blonde.
"Oh I'm sorry you don't know me. I'm Greg House – I'm betting he hasn't talked about me," He added in a stage whisper; "We had a bad break up."
Wilson was avoiding his eyes. He was avoiding Wilson's.
"Now scoot" He demanded of Miss Feminine, "We need a moment."
She glanced across at Wilson and saw the look on his face, "I think I'd rather stay."
"Has he ever told you about the time he shacked up with a dying cancer patient?"
"It's okay," Wilson broke in, with an even tone. He squeezed her knee, "I'll be okay." She kissed him on the cheek before excusing herself over to the bar.
House slipped in next to Wilson, leaving one leg out of the couch-seat, tapping his cane on the floor.
"Number four?" He asked, still not quite meeting the younger doctor's eyes.
"Lucy" Wilson offered.
"How long?"
"We've been married two months."
"I take it she's needy and broken." It was a statement, not a question.
"No actually," Wilson turned to look at House, but the diagnostician's face was hidden behind his hunched shoulder. "She rescued me, picked up all my broken pieces."
There was a moment of silence, well, as silent as a crowded bar gets on a Saturday night, but between them there was a moment of silence.
"You left." House whispered.
"That was the idea." Wilson responded, attempting to sip his drink, then not trusting his shaking arm, placed it back down again.
"You left me. You never called, or wrote, or-"
"You were killing me House!"
House turned to look at Wilson, the tears already beginning to pool in the oncologist's eyes.
"You were selfish and you used me and I didn't need it. You were no good for me."
"Damn it Wilson, you were the only thing in my life that was good for me."
"Well that's the thing isn't it? It's not just about you."
House sat back in the seat and clenched his jaw. Wilson traced the wood grains on the table with a solitary finger.
"You didn't call either." Wilson whispered, still not looking up.
House had tried to call.
To begin with he was just being stubborn and waiting for Wilson to back down and come back; when he didn't, House had wanted to call just to shout abuse at him. Finally he had ached for the sound of his voice so much it hurt.
"I was respecting your choice."
"For the first time ever." Half-smiled Wilson.
"I came to see you, about three years ago," House explained, once again twirling his cane and avoiding Wilson's eyes.
"I was drunk. Stone drunk. Was so high on Vicodin I could hardly walk, let alone form a sentence. But somehow I made it to your door at three in the morning and started hammering on the wood, yelling your name like it would save my life." He took a breath.
"And then some hooker answered the door, and I ask 'what the hell have you done with Wilson?', and she looks confused for a minute and then realisation dawns as she tells me you'd moved out a year before. I was a bloody year late. And now I guess I'm five fucking years late."
He turned to look at Wilson, who was staring back.
"Did you miss me?" House asked. "Even Once?"
"I didn't miss you once," Wilson said shaking his head. House lowered his.
"I missed you every day, several times a day.
I missed you every time I ate a sandwich or was called in for a consult.
I missed you every time some stupid motorbike would hurl past.
I missed you every morning and I missed you every night." He wiped away a tear that was forming in his eye.
"Damn it House, leaving you was the hardest thing I've ever done."
House was looking up at those deep brown eyes when he whispered,
"Come back," He placed a hand gently on Wilson's knee. "Come back to me."
Wilson reached down and for a second clasped House's hand in his, leaning his forehead on the other man's shoulder.
He pulled away.
"It's too late." He stated, standing up and squeezing past House. House tried to grab his hand, but it slipped away.
Wilson walked over to the bar, and without a backward glance, left with one arm tucked around Lucy.
House ordered his fifth drink, hoping no one would notice an old man crying in the corner of a crowded bar on a Saturday night.
Okay, that was ridiculously hard to write.
I wanted a happy ending, but then I figured there probably wouldn't be one.
Maybe sometimes love alone isn't enough :( *sob*