AN: My first foray into the House fandom, potentially my last but who knows. Might be OOC, but I wrote this primarily to get the idea out of my head, so Idm too much! Any reviews though are welcome :)
House smoothed the tip of his thumb over the familiar pills, eyes tracking the movement to avoid anything else. His lids felt heavy, following his breathing, but closing them would only bring an image the pills would help him to forget. Or, at least, feel indifferent to. Ah, indifference, he sighed, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. Why had he been so desperate to move away from that again? His fingers wrapped around the pills, tightly, despite the hesitation.
People had convinced him it was the Vicodin that had made him miserable, but he had gone without it for so long. Was any of it worth it? Sitting in the same place he had been hallucinating a year ago, he frowned. Anger rose in his throat, but he was exhausted, and he swallowed it down, comforting himself with the weight of those pills in his cracked hand.
He saw the shadow darken his floor before his brain had processed the sound of his door opening, the footsteps making their way to the only illuminated room in the dingy condo. His head remained balanced against the edge of the bath, and he saw no need to greet the visitor, preferring the embrace of the pills than anything else. The oblivion they could grant him was unique.
Feet found their way in anyway, as he knew they would, and it was the sigh that came from the intruder that finally drew in House. The diagnostician wondering just how Wilson had not seen this coming, how he could possibly be surprised. When he surveyed Wilson's expression though, lips turned down, he knew there was no real surprise there. He rolled his eyes towards the pills.
"You should re-bandage your shoulder." Wilson spoke without the usual fight; perhaps years of service he had given as House's best (only) friend had finally caught up with the man, who seemed to age quicker than most.
House offered a brief glance to the red soaking a once pristine bandage. It felt like nothing, though. He was used to pain. It could wait.
Swallowing hard, he rolled his eyes back up. "Is that why you're here?" he choked. "Foreman sent you?"
"He's worried about you." The oncologist sighed. "He told me what happened."
House stared at the floor that slowly held the dust he was shedding.
"I'm sorry."
Laughing humourlessly, a grim smile painted his face. "The Wilson-patented apology," he paused, mulling over the cruelty of his words. "I feel much better."
Wilson's lips fell further, but he didn't say anything. House blinked slowly, his breath hitching only slightly. Facing her panic was better than facing Wilson's pity.
A moment passed with nothing, no movement, no sound. Nothing. House was tired of waiting for the inevitable and held his hand up, opening his fingers quickly with a sardonic expression replacing any real feelings he might have shown.
"Aren't you going to take these, 'ey, Jimmy?"
"No." Wilson whispered with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. "It's your choice if you want to go back."
A beat.
"Oh." Another beat, and still there was no grab for them. House nodded, folding his fingers once again around the hope of oblivion. His fingers rubbed over them again gently, like before; enough to soothe, not enough to cure his pain. "Just so you know," he swallowed, "I'm finding it hard to see the downside."
Wilson stood silently, observing him. House knew his friend did as much deducing as he did, he just dressed it up as 'helpful insight'. The silence bugged him, his breathing calm, but all that could be heard in the small room with the now empty hole between them.
House closed his aching eyes again, begging for peace. It was only a moment before he couldn't bear the image before them, ghosts surrounding him wherever he went. He checked Wilson through the corner of his eye, since the oncologist must have noticed his panic, but the only sign he got was a frown shadowing Wilson's eyes.
A moment after, Wilson was sliding down against the wall, pulling his knees up in the enclosed space. House tracked his every slow movement, and once he settled, they were caught in a staring contest.
"I'm fine." House cracked first.
It was Wilson's turn to laugh, eyes rolling. They fell back on the pitiful diagnostician before him as he replied, "everybody lies." He tilted his head. "You just used to be good at it."
House felt the corner of his lip twitch, but he had no energy to argue. "I haven't changed."
"Cuddy told me." Wilson stretched his legs as much as room allowed. House would usually have blocked him. "What you said to the patient."
House's eyes flicked up, having returned to his oh-so-tempting vice.
"Did you mean it?"
House sniffed.
Wilson waited, hands interlocked in his doctor sort of way.
"Hannah." House whispered.
Wilson frowned.
House licked cracked lips, "her name was Hannah."
Wilson blinked. Then he blinked again. "Her-" he blinked a third time, closing his mouth. Then his face changed, softening in a way only an oncologist knew how. He smiled infuriatingly. "And you think you haven't changed?"
House hated that smile. It was his smile. He looked down at his hands, feeling Wilson's eyes follow.
"I did everything I could."
"I know."
"I tried to save her."
"I know."
House glared at Wilson. He grit his teeth as he said, "she shouldn't have died."
Wilson's head dropped, "there are things even you can't do, House-"
"She had a life!" he screamed. "She had everything, she sacrificed her leg for it – and I told her to do it!"
"House-"
"Why was it her? Why?" he growled. "Was she too- too perfect, or something?" the power returned to him all at once and he sat straighter, the forgotten bandage drowning in blood by now. "When there're people like me, who treat life like it's nothing, who treats misery like it's the perfect companion." He breathed quickly but heavily. "I have nothing!"
Wilson didn't flinch. Just waited a moment for the breathing to cool, before he looked the man in the eye. "You have me."
House sneered, using reserved energy he didn't have. "You're pathetic."
Wilson blinked, and House wondered how he was surprised by that.
"You come here, you look after me, you help me." He waved his injured arm around, more focused on his berating than the pain. "And what do I do? I throw it back in your face, every time." His movements stopped. "But you still come here. Every. Time." His voice rose as he carried on, "when are you going to give it up, Jimmy? Hm? When are you going to get it into that thick skull of yours, I don't want your help?" he spat. "What are you still doing here?"
Wilson refused to leave.
House saw red. "When are you going to realise, I'm no good? Why are you here?" he shouted finally, "why won't you fucking leave?" he emphasised the question, the anger, by throwing his little orange bottle against the wall, right next to Wilson.
Wilson flinched as pills scattered the floor beside him, all around him.
House stared at each one, mourning them almost, as he stroked the ones safe in his palm.
His attention was finally taken from them a few minutes – or was it seconds? – later, when he saw Wilson shifting opposite him. The oncologist tucked his feet underneath him, suppressing the groan of old age as he got up. House sighed; he was leaving.
House took a shaky breath, closing his eyes. This is what he had asked for. This is what he had wanted. So why did his heart feel heavier?
Seconds continued to pass like minutes, as House listened closely to the shuffling of feet, kicking pills as they moved. The door creaked. There was no click, though, and House wondered if he had the energy to slam the door behind his friend.
The weight that dropped beside him the next second, though, made him frown. He felt the fabric of the coat rubbing against his jacket, his friend sitting as close to him as possible, offering that heavy, grounding weight he always had. Pathetic. House sighed with relief.
Wilson stared at the wall opposite, stretching his legs properly now that he had more space to do so. He swallowed. "When are you going to realise," he said, "I'm always going to stay."
Thank you. House wished he could say, staring at the oncologist with watering eyes he would blame on exhaustion. Instead, he whispered, "why?"
It was so helplessly uttered, that Wilson turned to face him, to roll his eyes at the genuine confusion on House's old, hardened face.
"Because," Wilson settled as comfortably as he could, "I know you want me here. Even if you won't say it. Because I believe you've changed." He took a breath, and said with the smallest, but sincere smile. "Because I want to be."
House stared at him for a while. Searching. Hoping for some sign of a lie. But that wasn't James Wilson, and the man's earnestness and vulnerability was there for all to see.
House sighed, closing his eyes again as he leaned his head back against the bath, focusing on the pain to avoid her eyes.
"I..." he started. "I don't want to feel pain." The words were wet, and his eyes burned.
"Well," Wilson blinked, "you can't always get what you want."
House felt his breath hitch at the familiarity of the scene, the memory of a life long gone coming to the forefront. He only saw her eyes now, piercing his mind. He swallowed hard, bringing his head up.
"House?" Wilson whispered, in a tone that suggested it wasn't the first time he had.
House shook his head, the memory dissipating as his fingers fondled the pills. They could give him what he wanted.
Wilson must have noticed, because in the next moment, House felt the other man's fingers against his skin. He waited. The pills remained.
"Take them. If you want." Wilson looked down at the hand, House doing the same. "I keep thinking I'm helping you, that I could ever help. Doing one thing, then another." He took a deep breath, almost a laugh. "I guess I have as little a clue as dealing with things as you do."
Wilson's eyes met House's.
"We're all screwed up, House. In one way or another." He shrugged. "Some of us just hide it better."
House frowned. He definitely was surprised by this.
"But, you have me," he repeated. Emphatically. There was more to this, written in Wilson's eyes, that refused to back down, as House interrogated his expression silently.
The pills fell slowly, dropping to the floor with a tap, one after the other. Wilson felt it, heard it, and his heart beat a little faster. House watched him, missing the comfort already, but offering more vulnerability than Wilson ever thought he would be privy to.
"You think I can fix myself?"
"I don't know."
"'Cause I'm the most screwed up person in the world."
"I know." Wilson whispered.
House nodded, before lowering his head in the crook of Wilson's neck. The warmth and familiar scents rushed over him, downing the terrifying memories for a moment.
"Don't leave me," he pleaded quietly, hoping Wilson didn't hear.
Wilson tightened his grip on House's hand, and the diagnostician almost smiled with relief.