Title: My December
Disclaimer: Angst, language, slash. Character death(?)
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Chapter Nine: A Place for my Head
He must have drifted off for the next thing he knew someone was pounding on his door. He tried yelling for them to come in but his throat was dry. His words were no louder than a soft whisper in the wind. Then he remembered, even in they could hear him the door was locked. He had locked it to keep out Cameron. The only way to answer their insistent pounding would be to get up and answer the door himself. He braced himself with his cane, putting as much weight as he could on it. As he stood the room took a violent spin nearly sending him right back into the comfort and safety of the couch. The person outside was more insistent than Cameron, pounding on the door nearly every minute. If he didn't know any better it sounded like they were trying to knock the door down. On slow, measured steps he made his way around the couch heading toward the door. Walking made the pain in his leg worse. His shoulder screamed in pain as he put weight into the cane. He wanted to numb his entire body, to be free of the pain that kept him in a tightly wrapped cocoon.
He finally made it to the door. Unlike last time he didn't bother to try collecting himself. He wouldn't have been able to even if he wanted to. He unlocked the door and pulled it open, nearly stumbling backward. He felt lightheaded. Sitting, or even fainting, was beginning to look like a good idea. Once again the room began to spin violently around him, his vision blurred and he felt his legs giving out. A pair of arms caught him before he crumbled to the floor in a heap. He tried to stand, to offer some form of help as he was dragged back to the couch. The sound of the door closing didn't even reach through his fogged mind. He welcomed the familiar feeling of the cushion as he sank into it. With his eyes closed he let his head rest against the back. Whoever it was that had been admitted into his apartment was now currently rooting around in the kitchen.
A few seconds later he felt a cool glass pressed into his right hand. "Drink this," ordered Wilson, his voice heavy with emotion. House opened his eyes, drinking the glass of orange juice in one gulp. It felt good as it went down. Wilson took the glass and placed it on the table. "What the hell were you thinking, House?"
"The pain…" his voice was still scratchy but better than it had been.
"You figured cutting into your arm and just letting it bleed was a good idea?" This time Wilson didn't hold back the anger in his voice. "You could have killed yourself, you know that." He began to unwrap the towel. "And judging by the shitty job you did of wrapping this I'm going to guess that you didn't even clean the wounds. You know better than this, House. Think of all the people you see, all the times you hear of blood poisoning."
"I'm sorry," House apologized as Wilson left him sitting on the couch. He heard him rooting around in the kitchen again. When he returned House answered him before he could ask the pressing question, "It's all in the bathroom closet."
Wilson disappeared for a few minutes, returning with his arms full of supplies. He placed the rubbing alcohol, the cotton balls, the box of bandages, a roll of gauze, and an ace-bandage on the coffee table. Sitting beside his items he took House's hand in his and drew his arm close. "Damn," he hissed as the rest of the towel fell away. The area surrounding each cut was red with dried blood. Wilson shook his head as he poured rubbing alcohol onto a cotton ball. He dabbed at the skin near the cut, the blood washing away. "This isn't going to make her back down, House."
"Not for her…the pain…" House looked at Wilson, a new hopeful thought forming in his mind. "Vicodin?"
Wilson glared. "I'm not going to bring you drugs. Cuddy is on a warpath. With my luck she would catch me giving you the goods and fire me on the spot. No thank you. You're just going to have to find another way to deal with the pain. And if you insist on cutting, please clean them."
House winced as the alcohol seeped into the open cuts on his arm. "You are all afraid of nothing. She can't run the hospital without us. Well," he thought, "she can but it won't be the same. I'm sure that Chase and Foreman spend most of their time arguing while Cameron is free to do what she pleases." The look on Wilson's face pretty told him he was right. "Why are you here?"
"Because I'm worried about you," he sighed, placing a bandage on the cuts. "I know that you're in pain and that you need some form of medication. And it's a good thing that I showed up, seeing as you've sliced yourself wide open."
"At least it cleared my mind long enough to let me fall asleep," House muttered as he watched Wilson wrap the gauze around the bandage. "I'm sorry," he apologized again.
This time Wilson actually heard the words. He stopped what he was doing and looked at House, not believing in what he just heard. Never had he expected to hear those words pass the lips of House. "Well, that was unexpected," he said slowly.
House figured he was on a roll and might as well keep going. "I'm sorry for being such an ass yesterday. I can't let Cuddy win this battle, Wilson. If she wins then I'm admitting that I have a problem when I don't. This is one time when I'm standing my ground because it's the right thing to do, not because I want to piss someone off." Wilson didn't say anything as he wrapped the ace-bandage over the gauze and secured it. "I'm happy that you're here," House said, his voice nearly a whisper.
Wilson looked at him again, this time he was caught off-guard. "Excuse me?"
"I said that I was happy you're here," House repeated a little more loudly. "Listen, I have been trying to get through this jumble of thoughts and I think I finally found my way through. I finally figured out what I want in life…." House let the words linger in the air, chewing his bottom lip before getting up the courage to say what he really wanted to get out. "And I want you."
For a moment Wilson didn't do or say anything. He just sat there, staring at House, making him greatly uncomfortable. Meanwhile, House wanted nothing more than to take the words back. It wasn't his nature to show a sign of weakness and that is exactly what he was doing. He shifted under the steady gaze of the oncologist. In a surprising movement Wilson moved from the coffee table to the couch, sitting beside House. He wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. House rested his head on Wilson's shoulder and that's how they sat until Wilson had to return to the hospital.
