A/N: Wow. So this next chapter wasn't so hard to write.
Thank you to my readers and reviewers. You're so appreciated.
No slash.
If you have their music, while writing this Chapter, I alternated between the songs Forgive Me and Missing, both by Evanescence.
Please Read and Review. Thanks.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Not even Wilson. (sob)
Chapter 2
The sky was blue and strung with white, cotton-ball clouds. The sun was out but not too bright. The wind cooled his face and blew through Wilson's hair like a model's fan. Their sunglasses gleamed. An upbeat song was on the radio. Somehow, the corvette was the brightest thing on the highway, red and shining like a maraschino cherry pulled out of a cocktail.
"We are so cool," he said.
Wilson smiled.
"You really should leave Julie. She cramps your style."
"Since when did I have style?"
"You're riding shotgun in this baby and wearing shades. You're every college girl's fantasy."
Wilson chuckled.
"Shouldn't that be you, since you're driving?"
"Nah. I'm more the object of every high-class hooker's fantasy. I have a lot of money, but I lack the hair factor which you have been so undeservingly blessed with."
Wilson was grinning.
Shudder
Flash
"So is this really more fun than eating fried potatoes with Ice Princess?"
Wilson tipped his head back and laughed, mouth full of lo mein and house fried rice. House smiled and dipped his chopsticks back into his carton.
"Much more fun," Wilson half-coughed as he swallowed.
This wasn't House's idea of Christmas. Chinese take-out and Wilson. But it wasn't anything like one of those annoying holiday movies, and he wasn't alone for once. He was satisfied.
"And Ice Princess isn't Jewish, so I don't know if we would've had fried potatoes," said Wilson, twirling the noodles around his sticks.
"You're Jewish, and you didn't marry a Jew?" House gasped in pseudo-shock. "Shame on you, Wilson. God is very pissed off."
Wilson grinned. "I'm not exactly an exemplary Jew anyway." He slipped more noodles in his mouth and jerked when some almost slipped out of the sticks, which he caught in his mouth at an unusual angle. House smiled to himself. Wilson really was a geek. An endearing geek, yes, but a geek nonetheless. His tie was loosened, and his shirt was unbuttoned at the neck. He always ended up relaxing when it was just he and House, out of the hospital.
"Oh," he said, interrupting his own eating. He set the carton and sticks down and got up. House watched him. "I forgot something." Wilson bent down near the door, and House heard him unzip his bag and rummage through it. He was surprised to see two presents, wrapped up in shiny paper and complete with bows, clutched in Wilson's hand. "Merry Christmas."
House decided not to ruin the moment with another snide remark. Instead, he just took the gifts from his friend and smiled softly as Wilson sat back down. He pulled off the bow, and Wilson smiled with more noodles hanging from his pursed lips. House stopped. Wilson looked at him inquisitively. House got up and limped away into his bedroom, leaving Wilson momentarily confused. Had he done something wrong?
But a minute later, House emerged again, carrying – oh, my, God – a box wrapped in shiny paper. Wilson gaped a little.
"Happy Christmas-hana-kwanza."
Wilson half-smiled, still gaping, and took the present from House, who sat back down. They started ripping off the paper. Wilson laughed.
"Oh, my God." He held up his new tie, made from something blue and shiny, with a goldfish at the bottom. "Are you serious?" he asked, still half-smiling.
"You don't like it?" House asked, pretending to be surprised and hurt. "I thought it was very you."
Wilson shook his head and lowered it back into the tissue paper. "You're unbelievable."
"If you don't wear it on Monday, we're over," said House. Wilson snorted and laughed.
"Oh, and this is nice," he said, holding up the latest issue of Playboy and Jerry Springer Uncensored on VHS.
"I know, isn't it?"
Wilson cocked an eyebrow.
"You're married to Ice Princess, remember?" said House. "You need a little porn. And Jerry Springer is hilarious."
Wilson rolled his eyes and put his loot back in the box.
"What, you don't enjoy watching fat, trailer-trash red necks strip and bitch-slap each other over infidelity and paternity tests?"
Wilson just smiled helplessly at him.
"Well, James," House started. "I guess this means we're now in a committed relationship." He set his new, bright red bowl on the table; it had a big sticker slapped on it, reading VICODIN. Wilson grinned.
"I just figured it would look good on your desk."
"Oh, and this is lovely." House held up the black T-shirt, white letters blazing BITE ME.
"You don't like it?" Wilson echoed. "I thought it was very you." He couldn't keep from smirking.
"Smart ass," said House and put it back down in the tissue paper. He lay the box on the table and shoved it away a little. "So now that we're all set for domestic bliss -- "
"Wait," Wilson interrupted. "You still have one last thing."
House looked at him curiously and pulled the box back. He rummaged until he found a much smaller, velvet box.
"You're proposing on Christmas Eve? You're a hopeless romantic, Wilson."
James rolled his eyes again.
House popped it open. Gold gleam. It was a pin – a musical note. He smiled.
"Well," he said in a softer tone. "We'll have to have the wedding in Massachusetts, and Cuddy will be absolutely heart-broken – but I think we can manage."
Wilson smiled and sipped at his beer. House popped the box closed. He pushed himself up again and began limping toward the piano.
"This calls for some real music," he said.
And his last memory of that night was playing the piano, while Wilson leaned against it with his beer in hand.
The first Monday of the New Year, when they had gone back to work, Wilson wore his fish tie. The red Vicodin bowl sat on House's desk, and the pin gleamed on his coat collar.
"Dr. House?"
He snapped into reality.
"Dr. House, can you hear me?"
Cuddy? Damn it, why wouldn't she leave him alone?
He lifted one eye open and peered at her exasperated faced.
"Do you ever give up?" he asked, surprised that his voice hadn't abandoned him.
She sighed, obviously not happy. "What the hell were you thinking?" she almost yelled, straightening. He opened the other eye.
"I don't know what you mean," he said.
"Like hell you don't," she shouted. "You overdosed on Vicodin, you bastard. You almost died."
"Well, yeah. That was kind of the point."
Cuddy's eyes widened.
"Thanks so much for ruining it." House tried to sit up, pushing up against his pillow. He was hooked up to an IV drip. The room started spinning. He sunk back down.
"What are you saying?" Her voice was quivering, though whether on the verge of rage or some other emotion, House couldn't tell.
"You're a smart girl, Cuddy," he said, closing his eyes to try to fend off the dizziness. "You figure it out."
He was suddenly weaker than he'd ever been before. His sweat chilled his neck, his breathing felt too slow. His hands were cold. He felt nauseous. He could hear his own heartbeat – not the monitor. He felt like he was about to pass out again. He lay still, pressed back into the pillow, kept his eyes shut. But he was still spinning.
"You tried to kill yourself?"
The words felt like taboo, and they came quietly from Cuddy's lips. House breathed for a moment.
"If you don't want to use the word suicide, then yes."
He didn't see the anger melt from her face and leave shock, almost sadness. A long silence stretched between them. The heart monitor kept beeping.
"Why?" she breathed. It was almost a whisper.
"Because," he hissed. "I'm tired of this – tired of you, tired of Stacey and Vogler and this hospital and myself. I'm tired of pain. And I'm not going to put up with it anymore."
Cuddy was silent. He waited another moment. He tried to make his breath, his heart beat normal.
"And if it wasn't for Wilson and his God damn accident, I would be home, dead."
Nothing. No answer.
"So damn you and damn this hospital and damn Wilson. Go to hell."
He opened his eyes.
Tears were running down her motionless face.
He sighed, closed them again.
He heard her heels clicking away after a moment.
Cuddy didn't show up again, and some nurse came in an hour later to check up on him. The drugs were still in his veins. He could feel them. But they had pumped out most of them – or so he thought. All he could do was lie there and breathe, passing in and out of dizzy spells and consciousness, wondering what had happened to Wilson. He took a drink of water from the plastic cup the nurse had left on the table. He lapsed back into depression, but at least he wasn't in pain. He'd taken enough Vicodin to relieve him of that for a while.
He slept through the night and woke up to see the twilight sifting through the blinds. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and decided to get the hell out of here. His cane was propped up against the wall, near the door. He struggled from the bed to that door, dragging his drip along with him and squeezing it whenever another dizzy spell came or when he felt too tired to keep standing. At last, his empty hand came around the familiar arch of wood, and he sighed. Blue eyes filled with resolve and uncured pain, he opened the door somehow and limped out.
At first, he was too disoriented to figure out which hall he was in, on what floor. Room 221. Three floors below the operating room. Damn it. He mapped out the hospital in his head and began to move. He reached the bathroom first, where he proceeded to empty out his already empty stomach. He was amazed that some Goddamn nurse hadn't caught up with him already to force him back to bed. He wandered until he found one.
"Where's Dr. Wilson?" He was breathing heavy, leaning too much on his cane. She looked at him worriedly.
"Are you his patient, Sir?" she asked.
He shook his head and closed his eyes. Light headed. "No. Where is he?"
"He was – in an accident, sir." She watched him with shining, black eyes – unsure what to do. She could hear his labored breaths. "Maybe we should get you back to bed, huh?" She motioned to take his drip and touch his shoulder, but he pulled away.
"Where is he?" he repeated. "Is he alive?"
She hesitated.
"I need to know – is he alive?" He lifted his eyes open again and their blue wasn't piercing anymore. Just out of focus. He was so out of focus.
"Yes," she said finally. He closed his eyes again and sighed, relief washing over him that felt just like a wave. "He's alive. He was in surgery last night. He's – in Room 324."
"I need to see him," House muttered, swaying again.
"It's really early, sir. You should go back to sleep."
"No, God damn it." He pulled away again. "I need to see Dr. Wilson."
She waited a minute before agreeing, and they began the seemingly eternal journey to Wilson's room. She helped him into the elevator, and they rode it together in silence until it dinged. The wheels of his drip rolled audibly on the tiles. He limped against his cane, plodding down the halls with the Asian nurse walking to his pace. No one ever did that but Wilson.
A few times he could have sworn he was about to pass out, but he made it to Room 324 at last. The nurse pushed the door open as quietly as she could and peeked in before letting House through.
"He needs to rest," she whispered. "We almost lost him. I'll give you a few minutes." He limped past her without so much as a nod and sunk into the empty chair at the bedside. She backed out of the room and closed the door, but not before watching House through a crack for a minute. He sighed again, dizzy and weak and still nauseous. His hand shook, but he didn't notice. He lifted his head after catching his breath and took a good look at his best friend.
Wilson was sleeping, heart monitor beeping, cut screaming out where it slid down over his pale skin – above his right eye brow and then down past it. A bruise colored his left cheekbone – a deep shade of purple. He was still wearing a neck brace, and the oxygen mask hadn't left either. His arm lay upturned on the bed, tubes flowing from his wrist. House was alarmed to feel his own eyes sting. He bit his lip. His poor Wilson. House had never seen him like this, not in all the years they'd known each other. Wilson was always so okay, and now suddenly, he wasn't anymore.
He dropped his head back down. Oh, God. Everything was so fucked up. He'd tried to kill himself and failed. Wilson had almost been totaled with his car. Cuddy knew House was emotionally unstable and probably thought he was mentally too. He wasn't okay again, and neither was Wilson. How could he keep living? How could he bear this turmoil and not lose his mind? Maybe he already had. Wake up from near-death to find out your best friend was dead – how could he have almost done that to Wilson? What kind of friend – what kind of man was he?
Shuddering breath.
He pressed his palm into his leaking eye. His shoulders trembled.
He couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't take it anymore. He didn't deserve to live, didn't deserve Wilson, and Wilson didn't deserve to be hurt like this, by him.
He needed to finish what he started.
He needed to leave.
But Wilson wouldn't understand. Wilson needed him.
God damn it, he was trapped.
He was trapped.
He lifted his head, wiping his face before light had the chance to catch signs of humanity. Wilson looked defeated – vulnerable in a way that scared House. James always did seem vulnerable to House, just because he was softer and he had those eyes that said everything he felt. James wasn't afraid to feel or to let people in or to have his heart lay out in the open. And for that, he always ended up being disappointed or hurt. He just wouldn't learn. But House was glad. House was glad Wilson wasn't like him.
But this time, vulnerability made James seem so fragile; it was a death sentence. No one could be that delicate and survive in the world. House felt like James would shatter the second he tried to move, like if he touched his friend, every limb would break and the heart monitor would stop beeping. He couldn't kill James. And he couldn't let anyone else kill him either. He just didn't know how he was going to save Wilson and keep living afterward.
He didn't want to live anymore.
But at the same time, he did.
That little human piece –
The piece that remembered life before his infarction
The piece that remembered Wilson
And the way they were
And the way James smiled and the way James laughed and the way James took care of him
Even the way James yelled at him
And the way Wilson's voice rose with worry
And the way those brown eyes looked at him
That piece wanted life.
That piece wanted to be okay.
That piece remembered Christmas with Wilson and the way James had gaped when House had given him those monster truck tickets and the way they fit so perfectly in that speeding corvette and the way James had quivered that night when House had lain a hand on his shoulder, after James had told him about his lost, older brother.
That piece remembered the way James smiled into his straw when they ate lunch together, the way they had both laughed the summer before House's infarction when House had turned the garden hose on Wilson (he could still see the golden sun and the way James' wet hair dripped and the way James had thrown him down in the grass and taken revenge with that Goddamn hose), the way Wilson looked when he slept (laid across House's couch, one more night of avoiding his wife).
And that piece wanted it all back.
That piece wanted to live, wanted to be okay again, wanted to laugh and make Wilson laugh with him.
But the hole in his heart made him dizzy and nauseous and told him that he could never live like that again.
All he had now was Vicodin.
House didn't stop the next tear.
He couldn't see Wilson clearly.
He pushed himself up and stood for a while, looking down at James. He lay his hand on Wilson's brow, pushed his hair back, and turned away, limping back toward the door.
And he didn't even have time to think before he passed out in the hall.
And he wasn't dreaming when his body began to seize, and the Asian nurse called for help.