A/N: Okay, this is a sad one. Here's Wilson making an appearance in House's memories. Thanks for bearing with me and especially, a big thank you to those who read and review.
10.
The minutes ticked by but still Thirteen hadn't returned as promised. House's thoughts swirled like the water churning in the tub around him. How close had he been to grabbing hold of her as she knelt by his side and pulling her into the bathtub with him?
Too close.
He'd been lucky she hadn't noticed how her nearness affected him. As she began massaging his leg, fantasies of her taking a firm hold of a very different leg had come to mind. Keeping his thoughts and growing responses hidden had proven difficult, that is until he focused on the pain in his leg. Mentally reciting the more disgusting symptoms of a few, rare, tropical, infectious diseases also quickly waylaid his rising physical reactions. It worked and House had to admit, much better than calculating last year's baseball statistics.
Now, between the hot water channeled by the tub's jets onto his right thigh and Thirteen's prior alleviating massage, House's leg had finally stopped its more lurid roaring, content finally to slink back to a corner of its cage where it persisted with its usual growl.
Alone and without the threat of embarrassment and with the pain in his leg subsiding down to a customary ache, House was for the first time unencumbered enough to feel how truly tired he was. He shook his head but was unable to keep his eyes from involuntarily rolling back in their sockets. Pinching himself, coughing, talking, and swearing were of no use either. No attempt to keep himself awake was working. He had hit an impasse. His exhausted body and brain refused to be denied the sleep he so desperately needed. Still House continued to fight it.
For with sleep, came dreams.
Yet, like a relentless tide, his memories washed over him, taxing his mind and stealing the very breath from his lungs. He struggled to open his eyes before the all-too-familiar sights and sounds took possession of him.
"House?"
Too late. The recognizable scene hovered just within the parameters of his over-taxed brain and closed eyelids.
Though he shook his head once more as he slipped into unconsciousness, the gesture was only half felt. He had no real desire to banish Wilson's memory, painful though those final days were. In truth, House was loathe to forget anything about his best friend for fear of a domino effect. What if by forgetting one thing, he should then forget everything?
And the idea that he could dismiss from memory any precious detail of Wilson was wholly unacceptable.
"House?" Wilson called again. The familiar, beloved voice had altered those last days. It was lower, rougher, Wilson's throat burned and sore from so many sessions of praying to the porcelain god.
"I know you're only pretending to sleep so you might as well open your eyes," Wilson said.
House did as commanded. He could not ignore his best friend's plea any better in his dreams than he had in real life.
House was sitting in the chair across from Wilson who was lying in bed, his neck and shoulders leaning against the headboard in the last motel the two friends had stayed in Jackson Hole. Just outside their small, dimly lit room, the Grand Tetons touched the clouds, bull elk bellowed at their harems of cows, and wolves howled at the star-laden night sky.
House neither knew nor cared about those things. As Wilson's horizons had shrunk, so too had House's until at last there existed for him only the universe of this one room and his duties as nurse, caretaker, and loyal friend to the one person who meant everything in the world to him.
House looked at his best friend, studying him, looking for changes, eager for evidence of just one more rally. Over the past year, Wilson had had so many.
House could see that this time was different however. This time, there wasn't going to be one.
Wilson's boyish, slightly chubby-cheeked good looks had been ravaged and hollowed out through so many days and nights of sleeplessness and pain. An oily shank of dark brown hair liberally sprinkled with grey lay plastered to his face just above his still characteristically wooly eyebrows.
There remained only a single remnant of the vital man Wilson once was. House could still discern it, cherished it – a small flicker of light blazing from the depths of Wilson's large, sunken eyes revealed the life force still inhabiting the waning flesh.
"How'd you know I wasn't asleep?" asked House.
"Your nostrils flare when you sleep."
"They do not."
Wilson peered knowingly at House from beneath his pale, damp forehead. Even with the pain so evident in his altered appearance, Wilson was still able to meet his best friend's gaze . . . and smile.
"What do you have to smile about?" House said with more than an edge of resentment in his voice. "You look like death on a cracker."
Wilson coughed. "Have YOU looked in a mirror lately? You ain't so hot yourself."
"Shut up," House muttered.
"Nice. Very nice," Wilson said before coughing again. He cleared his throat and continued, "You're slipping House. 'Shut up' is hardly up to your usual standard of witty retorts."
House pushed himself out of the chair and limped closer to the bed. "Yeah? Well being cooped up with you, your vomit, and your dirty diapers has kinda cut into my study time. I'll go over my repertoire of smart ass comebacks after you're gone."
He moved over to the side of the bed. "Now," House said leaning over and picking up a thermometer from the night table. He shook it several times to lower the mercury, "Do as I say. Put this under your tongue and shut the hell up."
Wilson raised his hand to block the thermometer's progress toward his mouth. "You have to use an oral thermometer? You couldn't have gotten one of those ear . . ."
"Who said this is an oral thermometer? Now open wide Wilson and try to ignore the taste."
"No," Wilson said as he gripped House's wrist more firmly. He began sweating anew with the effort. "Later. I want . . . right now I want to talk to you."
"Okay, here we go," House mumbled though at the same time, sat obediently on the edge of Wilson's bed.
Wilson chuckled briefly before the chuckle again ended in a cough. "You know what I think?" he said in a scratchy voice, "I think you're just afraid of hearing what might be my last words. Are you really willing to ignore all the wisdom and sage advice I can bestow upon you now that I'm at death's door?"
House looked at Wilson from the corners of his gleaming blue eyes, taking great pains to keep the emotions roiling inside of him well hidden.
"After all the shitty advice you've dumped on me over the years," House said, "You think I want more of the same? Just because you're nearly, clearly, most sincerely dead doesn't mean you've learned anything whatsoever. Even less that you can teach me anything. It's not like death suddenly makes you the Great Oracle."
Wilson nodded, his expression turning somber. "I'm sorry about a lot of things House, especially the things I did to you."
"Forget it."
No matter how hard House tried to hide it, he could see that Wilson identified the overriding expression in his eyes. It was fear.
Wilson soldiered on. "No. I need to tell you this House. I've got to apologize for the times I hurt you, for the times I misjudged and underestimated you. For that business with Detective Tritter. For pushing you before you were ready. For so many things, I wanna say I'm sorry."
"Why?" House said, feeling the blood rise to his face as he spoke. "What difference does any of it make now? It's done, in the past, finito, finished."
"It makes a difference because I hurt you. The things I said and did . . . I pushed you out of the condo. I pushed you and Cuddy together."
"That's enough!"
"No it isn't. You were still reeling from your detox and Mayfield. You weren't ready. And Cuddy . . . she never, she wasn't ever going to be ready. I didn't realize . . ."
"Hell Wilson, just because you're dying I see no reason to rehash MY past. Why don't we talk about your numerous failures with your ex-wives? Why don't you endlessly pontificate on how you hurt them?"
Wilson blew out a breath that sounded irregular and labored. "Well they're not here. You are."
"Great. So it's a proximity issue? I have to listen to this inane crap because of my location? Let me get Bonnie or Julie, hell let's get Samantha on the phone and you can make her listen to this drivel."
"I just never knew . . . she didn't even show up at your funeral . . . I guess she never loved you." Wilson paused, sighing while House maintained a stony silence. "Maybe I thought you loved her enough for the both of you."
House rolled his eyes but Wilson continued. "Maybe I thought love conquers all. Or maybe I only hoped it did. All I wanted to tell you . . . I just wanted to say I was wrong. That's all. I was wrong about you. I was wrong about Cuddy. I was wrong about Sam . . ."
"Finally! A subject that has a remote possibility of proving that you don't have any goddamned idea of what you're talking about."
Wilson drew back, sitting slightly straighter in bed. "What do you mean? I loved Sam."
House's voice increased in volume. He felt a pang of guilt while at the same time, he plowed forward, anxious to deflect, to stop the hurt. Of losing Cuddy. Of losing Wilson. Of the raw unfairness of life itself.
"No you didn't. You only loved what she symbolized," he said.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Wilson said, his face flushing scarlet.
"Sam was your first marriage. And your first divorce. She was your first, big, very public mistake. You got back together with her hoping you could change the past. Fix what already went wrong in your life. By going out with Sam, you thought you could take an eraser to everything else that came after. Your other marriages and relationships would've been doomed to fail from the start because if Sam was your one, true love, then you were always meant to be together. You desperately wanted it to work with her because that way you could get a big, fat 'do over' on your life. All the mistakes and crap you were responsible for, you could take a pass on all of it. Nothing would be your fault. None of your mistakes, none of your bad decisions, your whole life wouldn't be your fault."
To House's surprise, Wilson's shocked expression melted into a smile. "I guess I don't have to worry you'll pull any punches in order to give me a peaceful exit."
House's breathing slowed. "Nope," he said.
"Also what you're saying is that Sam was to me what your leg is to you?"
House turned away as if he'd been slapped.
"I'm sorry House. I'm sorry. I didn't mean . . ."
"Yes. You did."
"No House. Please. I . . . I wanted to apologize and all I did was hurt you more."
"Whatever," House waved his hand dismissively.
"Really House," Wilson said, his voice taking a desperate edge.
"Don't worry about it."
"Please House. I didn't mean to say . . ."
"Will you forget about it for chrissakes?"
"It's just that I wanted you to know . . ." Wilson heaved an almighty sigh. "And now I've hurt you all over again. Everything's coming out wrong."
House raised his eyes to his friend's face once more. The magnitude of his stare, the depth of emotion was almost too much for Wilson to bear. Overwhelming hurt, fear and what had always been there whenever House had looked at him. Through all the years, all the trials and tribulations, it was there so openly, so frightening in its savage loyalty and insurmountable pain that Wilson had to finally look away.
Love.
Tears started at the corners of Wilson's eyes.
"I know pain Wilson," House said quietly. "I know how it can make you say and do some insane things. Regrettable things. Terrible things."
Wilson looked back to his friend and nodded. "I'm sorry House. I know. I didn't know it then but I know it now." Wilson reached out his hand to take House's free one. "But just because someone says or does something terrible doesn't mean they're a terrible person."
House dropped his eyes, studying the blanket covering Wilson's chest.
"Good people," Wilson continued, "Even great people can still make mistakes, can still do terrible things. But it shouldn't define them. It doesn't change who they are. Not inside. You were right about that, when you said 'People don't change.' Good people are still good, no matter what mistakes they make in their lives." He squeezed House's hand. "No matter whose dining room they drive into."
House's head jerked around and he glared at Wilson, searching his eyes, his expression for any signs of ridicule or contempt. He found none.
Wilson tightened his grip on his best friend's hand still more. "And no matter what, good people still deserve to be forgiven, to be happy, to be loved."
"It sounds so much more profound when a dying man says it."
Wilson smiled. "It's supposed to. I guess what I'm trying to say is I didn't mean to add to your pain, the pain you were already carrying."
"You didn't mean it," House replied, waving his thermometer hand dismissively.
"Just because it wasn't my intention to hurt you doesn't take away from the fact that I did," Wilson said, raising himself up from the bed, his face reddening with frustration. A coughing fit and House's hand pressing against him however, forced him to lay back down and into a sullen silence.
"If it makes you feel better to apologize, then go ahead. But it doesn't do a thing for me."
Wilson looked dumbstruck. "You . . . you won't forgive me then?"
"Don't be an idiot Wilson. There's nothing to forgive. Now put this under your tongue and shut the hell up." As he was speaking, House jammed the thermometer into Wilson's gaping mouth before he could voice any more protestations.
House continued to sit on the edge of the bed, raising his wrist to look at his watch. As he watched the second hand circle round, he tried not to think of how time, Wilson's time, was growing short. How they had so little time left together.
How he would be utterly alone.
After several minutes, House removed the thermometer and looked at the results.
"I knew it. You're running a fever again," he said, shaking the mercury down once more. "You had to make those damn secret phone calls yesterday. Don't know who the hell you had to call. Now you've gone and over-exerted yourself and I'm left cleaning up your mess. Again."
Wilson simply smiled. "Yeah, I'm gonna miss you too."
House glared at him. "Geez Wilson. You couldn't have gotten cancer of the larynx? At least then I could've been spared this final, last minute, re-evaluation-of-life shit."
"We all have our crosses to bear House."
House rolled his eyes skyward. "A Jew using Christian metaphors. That's just great. Covering all your bases? Let me know when you're preparing to break out the Hindu prayer texts. I'll be out scoring some Planters to feed Ganesh."
Wilson slowly closed his eyes.
House paused a moment before asking softly, "How's the pain?" He unconsciously began rubbing his right thigh. "You're not due for another dose yet but we could . . ."
"No," Wilson said with some force. "I want to be lucid. Right up until . . . just don't. Please don't dope me."
House gravely nodded his head. "'kay."
"Promise?"
"Yeah, yeah."
"Good." Wilson exhaled. On the inhale he opened his eyes again and looked at House. His gaze was so intimate it seemed he was ripping House wide open with nothing more than the weight of his stare.
Difficult as it was to hold and return Wilson's penetrating look, House did not glance away. It took nearly all of his will but he steadfastly stared back, memorizing every feature, every highlight and flaw in his best friend's face.
House was looking at Wilson and committing him to memory with the abject affection an artist would show toward his favorite subject before immortalizing him in stone.
"And no Wilson. I'm not gonna kiss you. No matter how much you beg."
"That's good too," Wilson said with a tremulous chuckle. He looked down to see House's hand still absentmindedly rubbing his leg. "How's your pain?"
"Never mind. It's not important."
"It's obviously bothering you."
"It's none of your business then."
"If you need to take some of what's left of the . . ."
"I said it's none of your business," House repeated, the defiance in his voice clearly palpable.
"I don't want you to suffer because of me. I don't want to be the method for causing you any more pain."
"Don't worry, you won't. If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times, I don't do self-sacrifice."
"Yeah?" Wilson said, raising his eyebrows. "Well I know better."
"What's that supposed to mean?" House snarled.
Wilson raised his hand and rubbed it across his forehead. "What has this whole, long, strange trip been except an exercise in your self-sacrifice? Faking your death. Riding cross-country with me. Taking me to places I'd always wanted to go, letting me do the things I always wanted to do. And now, feeding me, nursing me."
"If I'd known you were going to be this verbose, believe me, I wouldn't have volunteered." House paused. "Oh, and thanks for 'The Grateful Dead' reference."
"You're welcome," Wilson said, the single tear running down his cheek juxtaposed against the slight smile now crossing his lips. "And don't forget," he continued, taking hold of House's wrist once more. "There's one more promise you made me that I want you to keep."
"Wilson, I've already promised no dope and no kissing. That means no other fun either. And since we're on the subject, I'm here and now promising to definitely NOT blow or have sex of any kind with you. I don't know what more you could want."
Wilson continued to smile. "I want you to keep the promise you made to me that after I'm . . ." He swallowed hard. ". . . After I'm gone, you go and see Thirteen."
House looked away again. "Don't see why you care. Or why you cared enough to find out that she'd moved back to Princeton."
"That was you," Wilson said. "Don't you remember? You were the one keeping tabs on her via all those internet cafes whenever we stopped to get coffee. Maybe you should be asking yourself 'why.'"
House shrugged absentmindedly, seeking refuge in his old fallback position – deflection. "Don't see what difference me going to see dying girl is gonna make."
"It makes a difference because you promised me you'd do it. And you made a promise to her."
"Why do I have to go from dying man to dying girl? Don't I get any time off from all this death business?"
No one else save Wilson would've recognized the bitter edge to House's voice or the desperate fondness that created it.
"Just keep your promise that you'll go. You'll see her. You'll talk to her." He squeezed House's wrist.
"What am I supposed to say?" House said, raising his voice slightly. "Hello, I'm not dead. Just thought you should know since I promised to bash your brains in with my Louisville slugger when the time came. Oh and by the way, now I've changed my mind so goodbye and have a nice life and a nice death? What's that gonna prove?"
"You owe her."
House swiveled his head to look back at Wilson. He narrowed his eyes just as they shone with a fierce, blue light. "I don't owe her anything."
"Then do it for me."
House sniffed. "After this, I don't owe you anything either."
"Nope. You're right."
"Then what's the point?" House raised his voice again. "Why should I go back to Princeton and risk going back to jail? What the hell for?"
"Maybe, just maybe House, because you owe it to yourself."
House sat quiet and sullen, his eyes once more focused on the shoelaces of his Nikes.
"Okay," he finally said so low that Wilson nearly missed it.
"You promise?" He squeezed House's wrist more tightly.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Cross my heart and hope you die. Okay? Satisfied?"
Wilson smiled again. "Yes. Yes I am House."
"Now let go of me."
Wilson began coughing again. As he coughed, his grip became tighter seeming as if it went all the way from House's wrist to his elbow.
"Wilson, let go! I need to get up and get you something. Let me get you some pain meds."
But Wilson only gripped his arm more tightly, coughing until the blood started to come out of his mouth.
"Wilson! Let go! Wilson! Wilson!"
In horror, House saw the blood flowing freely from Wilson's lips and nose, his coughing becoming a strangled gasp as he weakened, the only thing remaining strong was his death grip on House's arm as if that was the only thing still keeping him on this side of the veil.