Title: Too Late
Author: heeroluva
Fandom: House
Pairing: slight House/Wilson
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: major character death
Words: 1448
Spoilers: Wilson's Heart, House's Head
Disclaimer: I don't own them. I just like to play with them.
Summary: House should have been used to being too late by now, always too late for the important things, the life making or breaking things.
Notes: I wrote this months ago when Wilson's Heart/House's Head were being shown continuously as reruns and just got around to posting it. Thanks cariad_winter (from LiveJournal) for the wonderful beta. This is my first House piece.
House knew that like always he was too late to fix things with Wilson. The sight of Wilson's back as he walked out of his hospital room had haunted him for the past two months since he'd last seen the man. He saw it while he was awake and during the few hours of drug induced stupor at night that wasn't deep enough to be called sleep. But he didn't want to sleep, went out of his way and did everything in his power to avoid it; popping dozens of caffeine pills and drinking gallons of coffee because what he dreamt left him sweat soaked, panting and sobbing. What he saw wasn't Amber in the bus with him but Wilson instead and his subsequent death. The images were branded into his retinas and Wilson's words of "I hate you. It should have been you. You should be the one dead." echoed though his head.
But House should have been used to being too late by now, always too late for the important things, the life making or breaking things. He was only five years old, but he'd known before he'd even met his father's cold fury filled eyes that it was too late. He'd seen his dad like this before and he'd instinctively been scared, but his mother had always been there to protect and hide him before, making excuses that boys will be boys and that he hadn't done anything wrong. But he wasn't so lucky that night. No, he was not because that night his mother had been at a weekly get together with friends, something that his father had pushed her into going to for months before she'd finally agreed a few weeks before.
Greg had been lucky the previous weeks. He'd been very careful with what he did and those days and about what time he got in. But that day he had been careless, too lost in his game to notice that the sun had begun to set until it was too late for him to get back home before it completely fell. He ran the whole way home, knowing that if he stayed out longer it was sure to be worse. By the time he got there he was shaking so bad that he could barely stay on his feet. And when he stood in front of his father who had yet to move or make a sound he didn't know how much he really had to fear. But he would find out. Oh how he would find out.
When his father finally stood up, Greg did not look up to meet his eyes, just stared stonily ahead. He almost jumped when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed while guiding him down the hallway into the bathroom. His father's hand clamped down even harder and an audible crack was heard as his collar bone snapped. Forcing down his cry of pain instinctively knowing that it would just make it that much worse, he bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood and black spots clouded his teary vision.
He must have missed something because the next thing he knew his father was smacking him across the face. "Don't ignore me. I told you to strip."
Not understanding what was going on he did as he was told, but apparently he wasn't going fast enough because his father reached down and finished the job before pushing him towards the tub.
The ice filled tub. He didn't understand why there was ice in the tub. Or how it had gotten there or when. But he soon found out as his father lifted him up and pushed him in. This time he couldn't stop the screams that tore from his throat as his naked body was submerged in the ice and he struggled wildly, headless of the pain. But he was only a little boy and his father was much bigger and stronger than him so he soon grew tired and went limp. That was when the cold became a burn and his small frame was wracked by body shaking shivers. But still his father held him down.
When it became apparent that he wasn't going to or was unable to struggle anymore, his father let him go. His world had shrunk to the numbness that was overtaking his senses and as his world finally faded to nothing he didn't notice that he'd sunk below the surface.
The next thing he knew he was still naked, still freezing, shivering from the cold, but was bundled in a multitude of blankets. And he really, really had to pee. But he couldn't make himself move. The blankets felt like they weighed hundreds of pounds. He tried to hold it as long as he could, but ultimately his bladder demanded release and he couldn't ignore it anymore. If he was more coherent he might have been more disgusted about lying on the wet sheets, but at the time he was just worried about his father's reaction to finding out that he'd wet the bed. When his father entered the room some time later, Greg closed his eyes, pretending that he was asleep which was rather easy since he was half comatose as it was.
But his father didn't say a word, just bundled him up in the dry blankets and sat him in a chair while he stripped and recovered the bed. As soon as he was done he placed Greg back on the bed and dressed him in his pajamas before covering him back up, turning off the light, and closing the door. His father knew he hated the dark, said that nightlights were for babies and Greg was too old for such childish things. But after his father went to bed, his mother would leave the hall light on and crack the door.
But that night she never came and it wasn't until his room started to brighten from the light of dawn that he finally succumbed to his exhaustion. When he finally got up that next morning, he hid his pain well. His mother didn't realize anything was wrong or that he was dying inside when she said he was such a big boy for changing his own sheets after wetting them and for sleeping without a nightlight.
And when he finally went to the doctor the next day, claiming to have fallen out of a tree he realized again that he was too late to regain his mother's protection.
He was too late to realize he was being set up by Weber to get caught cheating at Johns Hopkins Medical School. He was too late to please his parents. Too late to get people to believe that he was actually in pain and not just looking for a fix when he was having an infarction. Too late to save his relationship with Stacy. Too late to be taken seriously. Too late to be seen as anything but an addict. Too late to be a friend. Too late to ask for help. Too late to save her. Too late to save the best thing he ever had. And now too late to save himself. Not that he thought there was anything left worth saving.
The bottles of Vicodin lying open and empty all around him, paid testament to that. And the now empty vial of morphine drove the final nail into the coffin. There was no coming back from this. There was nothing to go back to. He carefully placed the note on the nightstand and climbed into bed getting comfortable. His tears went unnoticed as darkness finally took him and all was quiet.
Hours passed before a hard knock echoed through the apartment. There was a pause before the sound of a key in a lock was heard. The door hesitantly opened. Wilson called out, "House?"
The only reply was silence. He moved further in, looking for any sign of the occupant of the house. He froze as he saw the empty bottles littering the couch and the surrounding area. He rushed towards the bedroom throwing the door open and seeing the silent figure on the bed, ran forward and shook him screaming, "House, oh my God, House! Please no! Oh God no! I can't lose you too!"
But he knew it was too late. A piece of paper on his nightstand caught his attention. He read over it quickly before letting it flutter to the floor. Climbing into the bed, he curled around House, gathering his body in his arms and sobbed.
I couldn't take your hate. I'm so sorry. I hope someday you can forgive me. I love you.