Summary: House finds the Death Note. He uses it for the benefit of the population, but who really knows what justice is? Future HW slash.
OoOoOHouse awoke to a crick in his neck and the sight of Wilson perching on the coffee table opposite him, hands clasped as if in prayer as he sat, lost in thought, staring at the ceiling. Smiling slightly, since the sight made him feel strangely and inexplicably –to him, anyway- attached to the other man, he watched him for a moment, until the sensation of being watched made Wilson blink, and meet his eyes with a smile that was more of a resigned grimace. House was a little confused, until Wilson broke the silence that was beginning to take on tension.
"How many people have you killed?"
His voice was flat, emotionless, and for a moment House felt that almost overwhelming anger again; why wouldn't Wilson understand that he was doing good? But he suppressed it, sighed, and knew he had to explain. Knew he couldn't lose his temper because if Wilson couldn't trust him, he wouldn't have anybody. And as much as he wanted to get on with destroying as much evil as possible… he wasn't sure if he could do that without something keeping him sane.
"Hundred. Ish."
House watched as Wilson put his head in his hands, struggling to take in this new information. He must have had some idea about the quantity, since even from where he was sitting House could see the Death Note filled with his scrawlings, but hearing him say it just… sounded more real. He could relate. A hundred people? That… seemed like an awful lot. But how many lives had he saved by sacrificing those few?
"Okay," House sat up, needing to justify his actions to himself as much as Wilson.
But not immediately, since he was too busy trying to stop the room from spinning to formulate a coherent sentence. He cursed, dimly registered Wilson leaving the room and the sound of the microwave being programmed. Food. He remembered that. From back in the days when he'd felt that bit more human.
Wilson seemed to be helping, though. Anger and frustration were very human emotions. And… that tinge of gratefulness as he was handed a bowl of chicken soup, accompanied by that hint of… well he wasn't exactly sure what he felt as Wilson avoided meeting his eyes. Obviously he was struggling to deal. But House could listen after he finished his food. God, he'd forgotten how good it was to not feel his stomach attempting to digest itself.
In a way, he thought, he'd seen the pain as a sort of punishment for his actions, and had even consciously suppressed his appetite slightly, but he hadn't meant for it to go quite as far as it had.
He couldn't help but groan contentedly as hot food began to improve his mood, and noticed that, for the first time since he'd woken up, Wilson actually looked at him properly as he did so. Weird. He stretched as best he could without aggravating his suddenly cramping leg, and hissed in pain as he failed to do so. Rubbing it, he saw the flicker of concern in Wilson's expression, and knew that he still had a chance.
"Haven't you ever…" he began, through gritted teeth, and blinked in surprise as Wilson handed him one of his pills. He kept the bottle, but still it was better than nothing, House thought as he swallowed it and waited a moment for it to take effect before trying again.
"Haven't you ever… watched those news stories, and seen a guy who… shot sixteen innocent kids and then turned his gun on himself, and just thought he deserved so much worse than a painless death?"
He watched Wilson's expression carefully, saw doubt fighting with morality. Sighed and sat up, patting the sofa cushion beside him in invitation and grabbing the Death Note as Wilson did as he was bid. House scanned the list, searching for an example and pointed it out. Wilson read over his shoulder as he explained.
"Convicted for sexual assault and murder of four girls, all under the age of sixteen. He raped them, probably repeatedly. Starved them to death; can you imagine that? That helplessness, the feeling that there's nothing you can do but wait to die painfully? And don't just look at the floor sadly, actually think about it. Innocent girls, alone and lost and confused. Crying for help and wondering why nobody comes. He deserved to know how that felt."
House paused, wanting to see if his message had sunk in, and suppressed a shiver at the cold tone in Wilson's voice when he spoke.
"You're not God, House. You can't just… judge people."
"So that's the problem? The judging. Not the killing."
"Stop being pedantic."
"What, so you've never thought someone deserved more than a quick, painless death for causing suffering to countless others?" House found himself raising his voice as he argued a point he felt strongly about, but Wilson's voice remained calm and controlled. A little too calm and controlled.
"I've thought it, yeah. The difference is that I don't actually kill people. You're bringing yourself down to their level, House. You're losing your humanity."
"It's about the grand scheme of things, Wilson, not just me and you and our boring, everyday lives! I've been given this chance to make a difference. To change this world for the better. And I'm going to take it."
House's tone left no room for argument, and Wilson, recognising the stubbornness that had caused him so much anguish over the years, rolled his eyes, nodding resignedly. He didn't agree, but there was no point arguing. He just didn't have the energy.
"You gonna give me up?" House had to ask, had to know just how much his friend was willing to do for this idea he so clearly didn't agree with.
"They'd arrest me for wasting police time. A Death Note? Come on…"
House wasn't sure exactly why, but Wilson's suddenly melancholy mood made him ache inside. He didn't want to do this against his best friend's will, not when he knew the only person whose opinion actually mattered to him was so blatantly opposed, but those people deserved exactly what they got. His suffering was nothing compared to the lives he'd save by ridding the world of so many of its psychopaths.
"I don't want to do this without you."
He'd said it before he even realised, and knew that his own expression mirrored Wilson's, which was showing confusion and surprise that, unwelcome emotions though they were usually, were so much better than the sadness.
"You're not… without me. You're just not with me, that's all."
House, for a change, took no comfort in the fact that Wilson was clearly suffering as much as he was. And as their conversation progressed, it only seemed to make him feel worse. So he did what he usually did in awkward situations.
"I'm going to bed."
He walked away, seeing Wilson lean back on the couch, watching him as he left the room.
"House."
House stopped, turned to face Wilson who was staring pointedly at the wall.
"What?"
"I just…" Wilson sighed, "You're stronger than I am. You can deal with… the blood on your hands. I couldn't."
House knew what he was doing; he was admitting his weakness, justifying his actions because he knew House better than anyone and knew that he'd hurt him with his… rejection, based on basic morals though it was.
"Hold me down?" House was smiling slightly but deadly serious, and Wilson was similarly juxtaposed as he finally met the other man's eyes and nodded, his smile gaining sincerity as he knew he was forgiven for his momentary lapse.
"Always."
OoOoOWilson hardly slept on House's couch even when he was exhausted, and when he had so many confused thoughts fighting for dominance in his mind, it made things even more difficult. He'd awoken at around eight o' clock, cooked breakfast for House and left him some money for takeout because he knew he wouldn't eat otherwise. They'd agreed without even really having to speak that Wilson would be staying there for a while, and that House would be taking the rest of the week off work, at least, since Wilson had vouched for him and claimed he had the flu. Two weeks, at least, should satisfy the exaggerated urges that resulted from having a new experience, and Wilson hoped that after that, House could regain some semblance of his previous life.
At work, a cup of coffee constantly in hand and a derogatory comment about House ready on his lips for anybody who commented on how awful he looked, he went through the motions, spending most of his day in his office doing paperwork simply because it involved less movement, even if it was mind-numbingly boring.
He did have to check on a few of his long-term patients, though. Not that any of them were particularly short-term, but those who spent months of their life in the hospital were, he thought, deserving of a little extra attention.
"Morning, Sammi."
"G'morn, Doctor Wilson. How are you?"
"I'm tired, obviously. But good. And you?"
"I feel a lot better, actually. I kinda miss my hair."
"Don't we all?" Wilson ran a hand through his own hair even though he knew perfectly well it looked just as good as it had twenty years ago. Still, to Sammi, who was still so young, he probably seemed pretty old.
"Oh come on! You're what, thirty… two?"
"Thirty-eight. But thank you."
"It's alright."
Sammi smiled, still looking so strange without the long blonde hair she'd been so proud of prior to her treatment. But, as she had said herself, hair was a fat lot of use when you were dead. Wilson smiled back, unable to keep from responding to her optimism, but as his gaze dropped back to the chart he held, he noticed what she was reading.
"What's that?" he asked, nodding towards the book.
"Oh. Manga. It's Japanese, that's why it's backwards."
"Looks morbid."
"Oh, it is. It's about this guy, who's a genius, because they're all geniuses in Japan, and he finds a book where he can kill people if he writes their name in it. And the police and stuff are after him, but he's too clever, and he just gets drawn deeper and deeper into the whole thing. It's exciting."
She searched through the bag beside her bed, retrieved volume one and handed it to Wilson, who eyed it with curiosity.
"What the hell is that thing?" he had to ask as what looked like a crack addicted fetishist masquerading as a clown caught his eye.
"Oh, that's Ryuk. He's a shinigami, that's a guardian of death. He owns the Death Note. He looks mean, but he's cute really. He likes apples."
Wilson was unconvinced that he would ever consider this Ryuk cute, but shrugged it off, scanning the pages. A couple of the drawings unsettled him, the art style strangely realistic as depictions of the main character rather enjoying his role as Kira made him think of just how absorbed House was in his task already.
"Can I borrow this?" he asked, "I think… my friend would really like it."
"Sure. No rush to return them, though, I'm not going anywhere."
He smiled at her almost apologetically, wishing there was something he could do for this girl but knowing there was nothing except the medical course she was already on. Again he was reminded of House, taking his wish that bit further. He was saving people, and Wilson could appreciate the logic. But there were always going to be psychopaths. He still couldn't stop them. It was futile, as well as blasphemous. And illegal, of course.
He accepted volumes one to three with a smile and a promise that he'd bring Sammi a Happy Meal someday. By the end of the workday, he'd finished them all, and his thoughts were more confused than ever. And Cuddy was even more frustrated than she'd been on the previous day, when House had once more failed to turn up with no explanation other than a blatantly untrue excuse, and Wilson had been too distracted to do any work then, either.
Wilson hated how difficult it was to bring himself to care.
OoOoOWilson isn't as easily convinced as I thought he was going to be. This isn't according to plan! Still, I've worked something out. I think.