Once he's home, Wilson opens the box without much fanfare, utterly certain there will be a letter in there for him...
But there's no letter. In fact the box is almost empty. House's plans last night apparently included most of his morphine, and all that's left is a single syringe, already filled.
Wilson picks it up, stares at it. "No," he whispers in disbelief. How could House lie to him? Abandon him without a word? "You said..."
For the first time since the hospital, House's voice comes to him. I said I would leave you a goodbye, he reminds. Put it in your carotid and it should be enough.
It takes Wilson a minute to process that. "Are... are you serious?"
I'd have taken that last dose myself if I didn't think you'd want it.
House sounds a little offended now, a little injured. Wilson realizes he's probably the worst friend in the whole entire world. He is so insensitive he's managed to hurt a dead guy's feelings.
"No! No, of course I want it. I mean… Do you think..."
It's up to you. But either way, take off that stupid tie.
Wilson laughs, hard, as he slips the knot. "Anything you say, House." He feels drunk, careless. It's a wonderful feeling to have House ordering him around again, and he's not exactly sure he wants to give it up. He doesn't want to go back to being cold, and nauseated, and lonely. Hanging around listening to House tease is so much better.
He gets up and goes to the mirror, opening his collar.
Atta boy, Jimmy.
With the syringe at his neck, he hesitates a moment. "Is it..."
He's not sure what he's asking, but the benefit of House being in his head is he doesn't need to finish anything aloud. No - it's easy, House answers right away. Was for me, anyway. The decision was easy, the drugs were easy, and I don't hurt anymore. You won't, either. And you'll have time to appreciate it before you go under.
The needle breaks his skin-
Wait!
Wilson stops, waits for the idea he probably should have thought of on his own.
No mistakes. If you want to be sure, grab a couple of drinks from the minibar and take some of my Vicodin. You're still carrying it, aren't you?
Wilson fishes the little amber bottle out of his pocket. He sees the name on the label, gets all misty... brings it to his lips for a kiss.
Euw
.He's laughing as he pops the cap open and shakes a few pills into his hand. He washes them down with a miniature Jack Daniels and then looks at the pill bottle again.
Go ahead,
House laughs wryly into his mind. You know you want to.So he does... or tries to. Dry-swallowing Vicodin is not nearly as easy as House makes it look. His hand goes to his mouth, he tosses his head back, he works his muscles in the familiar pattern, but it takes several tries and the pill rasps painfully against his throat. Finally he gets it down, and hears House chuckling his approval. "One more," Wilson says. "But first: a toast!" Tequila this time.
The second pill is easier. The third is easier than that. Still, he doesn't yet have House's deftness; apparently being a junkie takes some work...
He giggles aloud when House growls at him.
"Sorry," he says thickly, and then looks at the tiny empty liquor bottles that are starting to line up in front of him.
Beer before liquor,
House admonishes. Don't make yourself puke; this is one hangover you do NOT want to wake up with.Wilson nods. It's time for the syringe. One more drink, one more pill for the road, and then he stumbles back over to the dresser where he's laid the precious needle. "I already feel better," he mumbles to nobody in particular. He realizes how wrong he was to be on House's case all these years; if this is the kind of comfort pills can bring it's no wonder House prefers them to people. "Nothing sucks anymore," he says, in wonder.
There's a reason they're called painkillers.
Wilson laughs some more. He can't wait to get the shot over with so he can lie down and let his friend swim into sharper focus. That's all he wants right now.
He ties off his arm and flexes til he's sure he can see what he's doing. Good move, House agrees, Forget the carotid; you're so wasted you'd probably just stab yourself in the eye.
He inserts the needle... then freezes when he realizes he is actually about to commit suicide. Suicide has always been off-limits to Wilson; the idea has come to him a few times in the past, but even on his very worst days he's always made himself rule it out immediately. "House?" he whispers, suddenly unsure. "Is it okay?"
Yeah, Jimmy, it's okay.
House's voice is unusually gentle. Wilson's not sure he's ever heard House so caring before. You did great, you've done everything you could. Everything you had to. You don't need to hang on anymore.House has picked a great time to come through, Wilson thinks lazily. All those tiny disappointments over the years, those petty cruelties he tossed off every day without a second thought, all the times he should have offered some small meaningless snatch of reassurance and didn't... House is making up for it all in this moment. Wilson feels safe and comfortable in his care, and it doesn't cross his mind once to be afraid.
That's it,
House soothes when the drug is all in. Put the needle down and lie back. It's okay.It is okay. Wilson's tired but happy. "House?" he whispers one more time.
"Shut up," House says in exasperation. Wilson can hear him now, louder and clearer than his own drunk mumbling. "I'm here and I'm not going to leave you. Stop worrying."
Wilson does.
"Enjoy it," House tells him, and he does that, too.
In the morning the maid sees the body and calls 9-1-1.
When the paramedics get there, Wilson looks a lot better than he did last time.
The End.
Next story will be happier, I promise.
Leave me love (or hate… which, after killing both House and Wilson, I suppose I deserve). And thank you for your comments so far, although I did feel terrible posting this after reading people's kinda hopeful-ish thoughts... Sorry!!