The jail cell around House is cool; dampness seeps through the thin blanket that shrouds his body. His body is clammy but that discomfort is nothing compared to the throbbing agony he calls a leg. The bottle of pills from Voldemort is on the floor next to him; he flails an arm down blindly, feeling for the cylinder that caries relief. His fingers hit the cold floor below a few times until they reach plastic. The top is off in a second and he swallows two, feels them slide down his throat with that familiar taste. He couldn't believe how easy it had been to bribe that idiot to get it for him. He relaxes; the pain will dissipate shortly and he'll fall into warm sedation, that glorious state where everything matters a little less. So he lays there, waits for the Vicodin to kick in, and thinks about how well this ended. Everything will be alright.
The sun is an integral part of life. It helps people tell time; makes their bodies produce vitamin D. House cannot see the sun. He sits on his cot with his neatly folded blanket, fully dressed. Waiting. He waits for seven o'clock, when he'll be released. When he'll see Wilson. But there are no windows in his cell (for obvious reasons). No light shines through. He's suspended in a stretch of time, immersed in darkness so tangible it feels like a presence; the dark and cold work together to keep him, wrap themselves around him, weave through his internal organs. They play for keeps. He listens for footsteps, for Wilson, with his entire being. When he hears them, his eyes stay planted on the ceiling. He won't move until he hears a voice. Proof.
"House," The voice is gentle, a caress that moves across his skin, teasing. He's up, vaulting toward the doors. His hands pull Wilson's form in, crushing him against the bars, making it easier to touch all of him.
"Stand back," another voice orders. A police officer House didn't see stands next to Wilson. House doesn't want to move, doesn't want to break contact but releases Wilson, who steps back on rubbery legs. The door is opened.
"Hands against the wall," the officer orders. House complies, muttering obscenities under his breath. Hands pat his frame, moving down his ribs, across his hips, down his legs. He's turned around when the search is over; told he can collect his cane at the front desk. He's following the officer, looking at Wilson, unable to stop a smile from stretching his lips. Wilson smiles back, but his eyes stray from House's face.
"You forgot your pills," and he's moving before House can comprehend what was said. He moves to intercept Wilson, stop him. Tell him he doesn't need them; he can get more at rehab. But the younger man already has the bottle in his hands; he frowns at House but hands over the pills.
"Here," he says, watching House. "Why don't you take one?"
"I'm alright for now." Neither says anything while House signs his release forms. Wilson avoids his gaze; his eyebrows are creased, almost drawn together. He walks out of the building, his gait too fast for House. There's snow on the ground and the older man moves carefully, looking for ice. He approaches the car and gets in quickly; the warmth hits him and he sighs into it, letting it fill him. He closes his eyes and relaxes against the heated seat. Wilson looks at him now, reaches a hand out to touch the older man's tired face. His fingers move through overgrown stubble, up to House's cheekbones. The soft skin is thin; Wilson can see the hint of a bright blue vein. He touches it, feels a faint pulse. His hand drops away, moves back to his lap, but is caught by House, whose eyes are now open. Fingers weave through his; they keep him close.
"That's Vicodin, isn't it?" Wilson's voice is loud in the enclosed space. House wants to lie. He looks into Wilson's eyes; they're not the same. Something's wrong. They're closed off, almost dead-looking. Wilson stares at House, waiting for an answer.
"Yes." Wilson nods once, twice. He blinks and looks back at House with that same look—the same lack of emotion. In that moment, House understands. Wilson has given everything to him—everything he could afford to give, and some things he couldn't. And House took and took, filing it away with sincerity, with the promise that he would try; he would do it for Wilson because he cared. But he stopped trying. And everything he ever told Wilson has become a lie. And now Wilson stands before him, hollowed out. Empty. House has effectively rotted the only person he cares about.
"Wilson, I'm so—" House begins to apologize, to take back what he's done, but Wilson looks at him with such a look of hatred that he fumbles. Words, the only thing he has, fail him. Impenetrable eyes look at him, daring him to speak.
"You what, House?" The voice is flat. It's in House's head, rebounding painfully, ripping him apart. He's filled with regret and it hurts—hurts so much worse that withdrawal or even his leg; it's unfamiliar and he doesn't know how to make it go away, doesn't know how to fix what he broke. So he tells Wilson nothing, mumbles something about going back to rehab and lets his forehead hit the cool glass of the window. The car starts. House expects Wilson to drive fast, to try to get away from him as soon as possible, but the drive is slow. Even so, the hospital is in front of them far too quickly. When the car stops, Wilson moves to get out, but pauses. He speaks to House without looking back.
"Go to rehab. You should probably tell Cuddy, too." And then he's out of the car, moving fast. Putting as much distance as he can between himself and House, who remains in the car, thinking. Wilson's voice wasn't angry anymore. It wasn't upset or hurt; it was nothing. He spoke in a monotone, wasting no energy on House. Not caring.
He doesn't care anymore.
The door closes loudly behind him, echoing through the parking lot. House makes his way to the third floor.
Wilson moves quickly through the halls, getting to his office in record time. He shuts the blinds, turns off the lights so he won't be bothered. He sits down on his couch and feels…strange. There's something wrong with him, and he doesn't know how to fix it. He just feels…off. The image of House is in his head (he can't get it out), but there's no emotion connected to it. No feeling. Nothing. He's numb towards the man; completely apathetic. He thinks that maybe he poured too much of himself into House; cared too much, felt too much. But instead of being horrified of the shell he's become, Wilson is thankful. Giddy, almost. House released him. He doesn't have to care about the man ever again. Won't need to worry about whether House will overdose, if he'll die of liver failure. He's done babysitting, and it feels good. He likes this feeling, this numbness. He thinks maybe he'll ask Cameron out; fuck her and leave. It doesn't matter. Nothing does.
House is in pain. He shouldn't be; he took two Vicodin an hour earlier. But his body won't concede the point; his entire body aches and he's laying down so he won't pass out. It's like nothing he's ever felt before so he can't control it, can't make it go away. He's curled up in agony, barely treading through the waves of pain and nausea that roll through his body like a ship in a storm. He can't stop his mind either; he's a captive audience as it plays back moments, fragments of the past week. Wilson in agony, watching him overdose. Dark eyes half-lidded, rolled back in ecstasy under him. The smell of Wilson as he walks by, his cologne lingering when he leaves. Soft lips on his, the taste of a different tongue in his mouth. Wilson laughing, watching TV. Wilson sleeping, jerking in his sleep. Wilson, looking at him like a stranger; like he doesn't want to know House anymore. Eyes filled with hate. Disgust.
He's sorry, a feeling he hasn't had since he was a child. It's that same feeling; he's not good enough. He only causes trouble. But now, it's not the irrational guilt of a child. He is to blame for Wilson (effectively killed him). He has ruined a man and he doesn't think it can be fixed. So he'll sit here in rehab, in psychic pain until he's released. And then he'll try to fix things. It's the only thing he can do.