A/N: Wow. I actually made it through Chapter 1. For some reason, this harder in coming than most things I write.
I'm hope it's okay. Sorry if it sucks.
Thank you to all of my readers and reviewers.
Please read and review. Thank you.
Reminder: No slash.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not even Wilson. Don't sue.
Chapter 1
House knew it was bad when Cuddy only told him to come to the hospital. He didn't bother with a goodbye -- just flipped the phone closed, grabbed his cane, and left. He didn't look at the pictures of Wilson. He didn't pick up the empty Vicodin bottle. He brought his unfinished beer. And half of him didn't give a damn about drunk driving accidents.
He didn't know what he was thinking while he drove. He liked the motor sounds – revving. He didn't acknowledge the memory flash of Wilson laughing when he had speeded his friend around on the freeway. 50. 60. 65. He wanted some hammered prick to run into him at the next intersection. The wind blurred all the lights as if they were wet paint. The pills were starting to sink in – dissolving into his blood, becoming inseparable. His muscles began their slow descent into relaxation. He was waiting for his heart to run itself through with the intoxicated relief, waiting for his brain to soak it up, for the dopamine to overflow.
Thunder shook the earth. He could sense the slow ripples of lightening jolting through the black clouds. Wilson was alive. If he were dead, Cuddy would've told House. Or maybe she was the type who thought death wasn't a topic for phone conversation. House knew in his subconscious that this possibility scared the shit out of him. On the other hand, if it were true, he would have all the more reason to let the pills work their magic. Nothing to hold him here without Wilson. Nothing to make the afterlife better. He didn't even know if he believed in an afterlife.
He was a doctor. He didn't believe in God. He didn't believe in heaven or hell. (He was already in Hell.) He supposed that all death would be was darkness – the end of existence. And as depressing as that may seem, he wanted it more than he wanted life. He wanted the relief. He wanted the end – of pain, of sorrow, of anger, of disability. He had pushed himself long enough. Every man had his limits. And House was at the end of his. He was ready for the dark. He was ready for dreamless sleep. He just needed to make sure Wilson didn't follow him yet.
(He drove. Piano in his head.)
His heart didn't even grasp this.
He didn't feel Wilson slipping away.
He didn't feel Cuddy's words.
If he had, it would be desperation and panic and fear – drowning in an ocean of feelings.
But he didn't feel it.
He just knew it.
And whatever minuscule part of him that wasn't frozen over screamed.
"IT'S WILSON, GOD DAMN IT. IT'S WILSON."
It screamed from the depths of his soul in a frantic madness.
Wilson. His Wilson. His best friend. Accident. Too bad to be explained on the phone.
But Vicodin and resignation blocked that voice out. He didn't care. He couldn't feel this anymore. He was done. It was nothing more than duty now.
Sirens wailed like banshees in the night. He turned his head and the red lights blared, revolving, crying.
Lamentation for the fallen.
It was never as glorious as war stories.
It was ass-kicking from your own body – civil war. People turned on themselves, lost control of themselves.
And there was nothing glorious about that. There was no dignity.
He remembered telling the schoolteacher this.
No dignity in death. None at all.
But at this point – he didn't give a damn.
And he knew Wilson would cry. If Wilson survived. He knew those brown eyes would grow sad because Wilson actually cared. The only one who ever truly did – the only who had stuck by him all this time.
And now House was abandoning him.
That's what kind of bastard he was.
He deserved to stop existing.
That little human part worried. Who would take care of Wilson in his absence? Who would love Wilson with this same silent love? This love – this love that watched James when James wasn't looking, making sure he was okay, sensing the unspoken, mending the broken, fitting like the puzzle pieces they had put together when House had been in the hospital for his leg. Who would watch over Wilson? Who would let him stay overnight when he had a bad fallout with his wife? Who would throw Christmas candy at him? Who would make him smile? Who would fight with him over feelings and well being?
House didn't know.
But at the same time, he knew he was setting Wilson free. No more sarcasm. No more insults. No more shunning. No more rejection. No more fights. No more hurting James without any reason. No more disappointing him. No more feigned apathy or ingratitude. No more House. And Wilson could go find someone good, someone who would treat him like he deserved to be treated.
It's not that House didn't love him.
(The tires made tsunamis in the street puddles.)
Wilson was the only person House loved.
And Wilson was the only person who loved House.
And they knew this.
The rest of the world couldn't stand House. And it hurt. It added on to his pain. But at the same time, he pushed everyone away. And maybe it was because they pushed him away. Or maybe it was just self-pity. Either way, there was a mutual separation between House and the rest of humanity.
But Wilson was the exception.
Wilson didn't care what he did or what he said or how much of a jerk he was.
Wilson knew about the pain.
And Wilson soothed it.
Or at least did the best he could.
And when the world turned on House yet again, Wilson was there to stand up for him.
So long as Wilson lived, House would always have someone to lean on to keep himself from stumbling.
Yes.
He loved James. But that love had grown weak and tired, worn out by abuse and his own unworthiness. He had become immune to its comfort, paralleling his immunity to the drugs. But he couldn't take more love. Wilson gave him everything. There was nothing left to give. House couldn't ask for anymore.
But he could take more pills.
He could always take more pills.
And he had realized that now, there was nothing to preserve balance. This love would shrivel and fall away from him, and in return, he would only harm Wilson to match. And that's something House refused to do. He couldn't bring James down with him. He couldn't disappoint his friend anymore. James deserved better. And House was going to give it to him.
He had already begun some while ago – hurting Wilson after the love started to fail. He took more Vicodin, more isolation. He disappeared so Wilson wouldn't find him. Part of him wanted his friend's comfort. Most of him just wanted to be alone. Depression became so overwhelming sometimes, he had no motivation to speak or move or think. He just wanted to sleep. For good.
That's why he was doing this.
That's why he let the pills dissolve.
There wasn't any hope left for House.
But there was hope yet for Wilson.
As long as House lived, there was hope for Wilson.
House had to save him.
And then he could die in peace.
And let Wilson live.
Because House was a disease.
He was a cancer that the oncologist couldn't detect.
And just like any cancer, the only thing to do was remove it completely. Before it spread, before it won.
House was grim again. He couldn't see the windshield or the road or anything in front of him. He thought. He was dying. (And so was Wilson.)
Funny. He'd always felt this way – dying. He was just speeding it up now.
A car yelled at him.
"Hey! Watch where you're going, asshole!"
He didn't pay attention. His hand perched on the same spot of the steering wheel, good foot poised on the gas pedal – unyielding. He and his best friend were dying. The world could fucking wait.
He swerved into the hospital parking lot, veered into a handicapped parking space (even though he had refused a matching card and license plate), and yanked the key out of the ignition. He sat for a moment, night buzzing at his back. Moon glow paled the trees. The street noise had suddenly faded, and it was as quiet as his own driveway. The lot was relatively empty. He looked over and recognized Cuddy's Lexus a few yards away.
Wilson drove a Mercedes.
It wasn't here.
House clicked the door open and swung his feet out to touch the tar. He sighed. Reached back and grabbed his cane. Hesitated. Human sliver feared Wilson's condition. Blue eyes glimmered in a catch of light. Fingers tightened around despised wood. He pushed himself up. Suppressed a grunt. Staggered a little. Pills flowing through his legs.
Thomas Newman music. (Cuddy calling.) He let it play. Didn't answer.
House hobbled around the door, shut it, heaved up onto the sidewalk, trudged to the main entrance. The receptionist glanced at him, almost nervously. He didn't notice. Stepped into the elevator, rode it alone. He frowned through every floor, sagging on the cane, letting his vision blur and clear, blur and clear. The pain was beginning to dissipate. In his leg. He had never had this much Vicodin before.
Ding.
Limp.
Limp.
Limp.
"House."
He moved his eyes to Cuddy. She sighed. Didn't know how to explain. House knew it.
"They're prepping him for surgery. He was unconscious when they pulled him out of the car, due to a concussion; they put him through a full body MRI. Internal bleeding – in his stomach."
Surgery
Unconscious
Car
Concussion
MRI
Bleeding
House stared, blinked, waited. She expected him to answer. What was he supposed to say?
He turned his eyes away and plodded past her without a word. No one acknowledged him as he made his way toward the suspected operating room. Cuddy watched him go, no clue what to do or say. House could feel the drugs gushing through every vein, every capillary, streaming up into his brain, washing out his organs. The hall was dim. He stopped at the first and last operating room on his left – very end of the hall. The doors swung open and then closed behind him. The surgical team, clad in their blue scrubs and face masks, all turned to look at him.
"House?"
It was Hourani. Fuck.
"What are you doing here?"
House limped until he could see Wilson's face, pale and lifeless. Oxygen mask in place. Dark lashes still against cheeks. Blue from his neck to the last set of ribs. Blue from his hips to his feet. White belly shining in the legendary light. House moved his eyes. Metal tools gleaming on tray. Another tray – white hills of gauze – out of season. (It was April, not November.) Hourani stared, hands stopped in mid air – latex gloves. House ignored him. They had a defibrillator on hold in the shadows beyond.
"House?"
He looked at Hourani. The surgeon had never liked him. He had never liked the surgeon.
"He's Dr. Wilson's friend, sir," said one of the nurses, leaning toward Hourani.
"I don't give a damn. He can wait outside just like everybody else."
House stared.
His vision blurred again.
His hand was trembling.
"House, get out of here, right now."
Sweat.
Sway.
"Dr. House?" the nurse called.
His eyes were unfocused.
He realized that a heart monitor was beeping – Wilson's heart.
Sway.
"Dr. House, leave," Hourani pressed.
What tie had Wilson been wearing today?
"Dr. House?" The nurse was worried.
The pain in his heart was easing.
The organ slowed to numbness.
He took a step back.
Blue eyes dull.
Wilson.
Darkness.