Somehow, watching Requiem again brought about this connection between the two fandoms. It's written slightly in the style of the film, with the seasons displayed between scenes, but I've added in an extra (Spring) to even it up a little (:


Requiem for a Dream

Summer

Wilson could see the pain scrawled over House's face, and no amount of Vicodin would ever hide it. Each time they passed, he could see it in Greg's eyes, see how sick he was of being under fate's cruel, mocking gaze. Every time they spoke, Wilson could pick it up in his voice, find the just desire to go one day without the pain beneath his cold, brutal tones. It was there in his movements, his very mannerisms, yet James never could bring himself to say a word.

He was merely a bystander, one who – every so often – was given a small glimpse at what it was like to be Greg House. He was shown in doses what it was like to down pills every time life threw you yet another bad hand. Every day, he was given another tiny piece of the jigsaw, and the puzzle finally took shape. But, the more he saw, the more he wanted to detach himself from it completely.

At times, it sickened him. At others, he felt nothing but an unrequited respect that Greg could keep it up. If it had been him to suffer not jus the infarction but the bitter taste of life's darker side, Wilson felt sure he wouldn't have lasted as long. He would have been six feet under within a matter of months, and yet House kept struggling on. He survived, kept fighting.

Nonetheless, the amount of pills consumed on a daily basis troubled him slightly. At times, House seemed in complete control, but there was no telling when that state could deteriorate. If he was hooked on the pills, it would only grow worse over time.

Wilson didn't like to think about the final outcome of a Vicodin addiction. Especially not when used in the same context as his closest friend.

Autumn

Even if nobody else had noticed, James had. The rattle of the bottle from House's pocket had grown so much more frequent, and Wilson would barely ever pass him without seeing him swallow two more of his only relief. His sanctuary from reality. But House was withdrawing into that sanctuary so very quickly, refusing to even see the rest of the world in a clear light for the most part. Oh – he was still a brilliant medical mind. Cases came and were cleared quicker than ever, but the pills would soon be taking their toll.

Wilson's conscience urged him to take some sort of action, but common sense told him it would do no good whatsoever. Even a simple 'Good Morning' was met with a grunt of disapproval as they both went on their way. Besides – if he were to miraculously spirit away all Vicodin within the state of New Jersey, House would crash. He'd plummet back to the real world, back to all his suffering, at a time when the hospital was overrun with new cases every single day. To put it from a business point of view – the hospital would crash even harder if House were to fall.

Nervous glances and gazes increased as Wilson observed House with interest that was moving into the obsessive, and he felt so very guilty to be treating Head of Department as more of an experiment than a friend. It was partly justified within himself that he was merely trying to help House, but that didn't stop the sleepless nights and the increasing feeling of betrayal.

It didn't stop him watching, either.

Winter

Nobody could deny it now – House was sick. The pills he was practically forcing into his system had taken their toll, and he had never looked worse. A gaunt, pale, ghost of the person he had once been, Greg could barely get through one case without flicking open the cap of the Vicodin. The bottle rarely saw the safety of his pocket, instead crammed into his shaking palm so he could choke them down whenever he needed.

There had been a meeting between Cuddy, Wilson and the Ducklings. James had merely sat there and bitten his nails while the rest had talked, trying to put forth a way to help Greg. But the conclusion, as Wilson had known all along, was that he just didn't want to be helped. Whatever they came up with, House would just yell at them, insult them before downing another four or five and shuffling away.

All the same, they tried. They downright begged him to seek treatment, but he merely scoffed, telling them they were the ones that needed the help. They didn't even speak to him any more – skirting around him to get their papers and then high-tailing it out of his sight. And those papers were growing in numbers as House's work declined. He maintained that he was still in possession of a damned brilliant mind, but even Cuddy admitted he was becoming more and more of a liability.

Reduced to a twitchy, unpredictable, drug addicted shell of a man, House was causing Wilson more and more of those nights where all he could do was sit and think. Sit and wonder. Sit and hope.

Spring

Surrounded by a tangle of wires and machines, it was no longer House beneath the hospital sheets. The shell of a man had been cracked, leaving nothing more. His overdose had been inevitable, but everybody had been stunned to silence upon hearing the news.

Even though he had been lucky, even though Wilson had stumbled across his limp frame over the office desk just in the scrape of time, it didn't look like Greg was to be awakening from the coma that had locked down his mind.

Brushing House's knuckles with his palm, Wilson briefly held the man's hand in the almost-silence of the darkened room. Anguish was forever chasing guilt around his mind, and – even though he was forever getting pats on the shoulder and comforting words – the bulk of the burden was still residing upon his shoulders. This was his fault. If only he had done something. If only.

Removing his hand, Wilson picked up the bottle from Greg's bedside table. The last of the Vicodin. Whoever had placed it there had to be playing a cruel joke, surely. The pain in his thigh was the least of House's worries.

Unscrewing the top, James dropped each and every of the small capsules to the floor, each patter like a thunderclap. Without batting an eyelid, he crushed them all beneath his heel, grinding them into the floor until they were nothing more than powder.

As he left, as the door was opened, and a flicker of harsh light played over Greg's face from the corridor. As it did so, Wilson thought he saw the man move, but a look at the monitors told him otherwise.

For a moment more, the light lingered, until the door closed shut and House was plunged back into the solitary darkness once more.