He took the fist, believing wholeheartedly that he deserved it.
He took the fist, reveling in the pain that made him feel just a little less guilty.
He took the fist, gasping as his bad leg crumpled under him, reminding of all the times Wilson had cared for him when the pain was bad.
He took the fist, his vision going black as he hit the ground.
The pain took his consciousness, he drifted in it for what seemed like an eternity.
He drifted, lost, deep in the pain, until a hand shook his shoulder, familiar, warm.
He didn't take the hand.
He didn't deserve the hand.
He gasped as another wave of pain hit, curling into a ball.
He took the pain.
He took every agonizing moment of the pain.
He refused to take the scream he could feel building in his chest and throat.
He deserved the pain.
The scream came out, whether he took it or not.
He heard a voice calling him, asking him to come back, asking him to stay with him.
Wilson deserved better.
Wilson had always deserved better.
And House had taken better away from him.
He felt tears on his cheeks, not because of the pain, but because it hurt, physically hurt, ached in his chest, the pain of not taking the voice.
He took that pain.
He deserved that pain.
Another wave of agony crashed over him, another scream he didn't deserve to let out.
He didn't deserve that outlet.
He didn't deserve the sympathy it would bring.
He deserved to curl up in a dark, lonely corner with the pain, the pain in his head, the pain in his leg, the pain in his jaw. The pain in his heart that eclipsed all the other pains.
He deserved to never be happy again. He had never deserved to be happy before.
"House! Dammit, House answer me! House, I'm gonna hate you if you don't answer me!"
Good. Wilson deserved the outlet of hating him. He deserved to be hated by Wilson.
He deserved the punch.
He deserved the pain.
The pain.
The pain that at that moment became so intense that he forgot about deserving it, as his body gave up and he lost consciousness.
Dammit.
He deserved to be awake for this pain.
House opened his eyes.
He was cold, shivering.
Good.
He looked to his right.
Wilson and Cuddy were asleep there, both looking like they had been where they were for hours or even days.
He tried to wake them, but his voice was so dry nothing came out but a rasp.
Oh well.
He swallowed hard and looked at his left hand.
There were lines attached to his body there, what looked like fluids, morphine...
He pulled them out.
The pain slowly returned until it hit him full force, and he was again unable to push back the hoarse scream that he didn't deserve.
"House. Stop self-destructing. It wasn't your fault."
The brown eyes above his face were calm and quiet, holding no lie or self-deception.
"It wasn't your fault," repeated Wilson again, re-inserting the morphine needle as House failed to stifle a desperate whimper, "it just happened. And I don't want to lose you too."
He gasped, panting with pain, but his eyes were fixed on Wilson.
Wilson didn't want to lose him.
No matter how worthless he was, he was still worth something to Wilson.
He nodded, closing his eyes and allowing sleep to take him at last.
He might deserve nothing short of agony, but Wilson deserved to not have another person taken away from him.
He would stay for Wilson, then.
And he would do his absolute best for his friend that he didn't deserve.
Even if he knew he could never be nearly enough.
He had failed and Wilson had found Amber, and no matter what he did, he hadn't even been enough to save the person who Wilson had truly loved.
He would always fail to be enough for the person that he loved.