Cuddy couldn't sleep that whole night. House was her friend, House did something stupid…House always does this to her. He always does something that keeps her up for nights at a time until she's sure he's okay. During the detox, she slept a total of ten hours that whole week. Now he did something else for her to shove the pillow over her head and only attempt to sleep.
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She didn't sleep that whole night, which was why she was grateful when she heard Wilson's voice that morning.
"Uh, Dr. Cuddy, you said you wanted to see me?" Wilson asked timidly from the door.
"Oh, yes, yes, come in." She smiled.
Wilson walked in and sat into the comfy little chair she had set up. A knot wrenched in his stomach.
Lisa Cuddy was not a woman to beat around the bush. "What'd House do?" she asked straightforward.
Wilson fiddled his fingers together; he slightly resembled a little boy sitting in the principal's office, awaiting his fate after doing something bad. But it wasn't him that did the bad thing. But I did, I did do something bad, I couldn't help him, stop him, he thought.
"I, uh, I, well…I went to his house yesterday to get my DVD player, and uh, when I got there, he was on his couch…he had a chest with uh, vials of morphine and syringes and stuff. I think he's been taking it regularly." He managed to spit out.
Wilson hated the fact that Cuddy was almost as good as House at keeping her face expressionless. Her face was stone, staring at him, not a single word could be read from the lines etched in her face, nothing in her eyes. A stone.
Inside, Cuddy wore a part of her just died.
"Do you know how much he's been taking?" She asked, voice unwavering.
He shifted in his chair, and for once, he wasn't sure how to respond.
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House closed all of the blinds surrounding the thick glass walls of his office, dimmed the lights, locked his door, and sat. His leg raged in inferno, merciless, overtaking. His body trembled and shook, tremors making their way through his leg, then through the rest of his aching muscles. The bottle, there it was. He opened it and eagerly shook out two pills. They made their way into his body in an instant. He sat there for a few moments. Not enough. He pulled out the filled syringe that lay hidden in the bottom of his drawer. He stared at it, the devil's juice, oh so satisfying, but killing him in the least. House always hated opposing forces that fused. Never made any sense.
He stared at the syringe, fiddling it in his fingers, and thought.
About the only thing he could. The only thing he had.
This love – this love that watched Wilson when Wilson 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 if it wasn't for him? 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 if it wasn't for him?
House didn't know.
But at the same time, he knew he was setting Wilson free by staying away, pushing him away, hiding himself, doing this to himself. No more sarcasm. No more insults. No more shunning. No more rejection. No more fights. No more hurting Wilson without any reason. No more disappointing him. No more feigned apathy or ingratitude. No more of the typical hurt House caused. 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.
He plunged the morphine into his vein, head tilting backward with anticipation and practiced control.
Wilson was the only person House actually did love. And look at what a bastard he was being, hurting him like this, going against one of the only things Wilson asked of him.
But the larger portion of House could care less. Fuck Wilson, he didn't understand the pain. He could say he does, that he truly does, but House knows Wilson would have to actually feel it to understand it. To be House to understand it, and who the hell wants to have House's life? Hell, a part of House himself didn't want his life
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 to know about the pain and soothe him over the false delusion that he knows what House is feeling. House is okay with that though. Wilson tries, it's all he can do, and House understands that.
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.
So why the hell was he going against one of the only things Wilson ever asked him?
Maybe it was his now-foggy mind speaking, but he decided it was because he was selfish.
Fuck, that's it. He's God damned selfish.
He loved Wilson. 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, more morphine.
He could always take more drugs.
House could feel the drugs gushing through every vein, every capillary, streaming up into his brain, washing out his organs, his thoughts completely over taken by false images he perceived, the drugs sloshing throughout him. He put the syringe back down in his drawer, sat hunched in his recliner; lay his head in his arms. Just a few minutes, and back to work, he told himself.
In thirty seconds or so, he was out cold, exhausted from his thoughts.