"House… there's something I should tell you before I make this call…"
House huddled in silence against the side of the dresser, looking warily up at his captor, eyes darting from his face to his hands, watching for any sign of immediate danger – not that the danger he was already in could get much more immediate. Still, for some reason, Wilson hadn't carried out his murder/suicide plan yet; and House knew that whatever was stalling him, it certainly had to be a good thing.
"I… I lied to you before. About Cuddy. She's… she's not dead. I didn't kill her."
House felt an overwhelming tremor of relief pass through his body with those words, despite the fact that his mind was racing ahead, warning him not to accept Wilson's claim at face value. It was possible that Wilson was lying now, for some reason, though House couldn't figure out what he hoped to gain by that – what he hoped to gain at all, if he really intended for this to be the end for them.
Maybe he just doesn't want me to die thinking of him like that. Maybe he wants for things to be okay between us at the end. Don't know how he expects that to happen when he's the one who's making it the end…
"Not because I didn't try," Wilson continued, a regretful grimace on his face as he slowly sat down on the edge of the bed. "Because I did." He paused, his voice solemn and quiet when he went on. "I… I'm glad I failed. I don't know why I told you she was dead."
This new piece of information out-ruled House's theory, and he reconsidered the situation in light of it for a moment before his shoulders began to shake with relief. There was no reason for Wilson to lie and say that Cuddy was alive, but admit that he'd tried to kill her, if his goal was leaving House with as favorable an impression of him as possible. Shaking his head, House finally looked up at Wilson through eyes blazing with quiet resentment.
"I know why," he stated softly, a challenging edge to his trembling voice. "Because you were trying to control me. Because you thought I wouldn't resist you anymore if I thought I'd already caused Cuddy to die by resisting you before… and you were right."
Wilson visibly tensed at House's explanation of his motives – but he didn't speak a word in denial of them.
"But now," House continued, a grim note of resignation in his voice. "Now… you don't care anymore. You've already decided that we're both going to die in just a few minutes… so what's the point?"
"House…" Wilson's tone was warning. "Stop it…"
"Why?" House demanded, quietly defiant. "You're going to kill me anyway."
"I said stop it!"
Wilson snarled, rising to his feet and angrily kicking out at House, connecting with his hip with only moderate force. Still, House flinched, going silent and bracing himself for greater pain. Wilson relented immediately at his reaction, burying his face in his hands and letting out a shaky sigh of defeat.
"See, this… this is just pointless. I can't keep control for five seconds." He raised his head, setting the gun down on the bed beside him and raising his cell phone again. "We need to just get this finished with… but first… I need to make a call."
House was only mildly surprised when he realized that Wilson had dialed Cuddy. It made more sense than most of the decisions Wilson had been making lately. He listened quietly while Wilson explained his actions to Cuddy, trying not to show any reaction to the ludicrous things his friend was saying. Wilson's excuses might have meant more to him if he hadn't already suffered so long under the terrifying power of Wilson's delusions.
Doesn't matter. It'll be over in a few minutes, anyway.
But then, Wilson gave House the phone and let him talk to Cuddy – and everything changed.
Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. If I can wait that long… if I can get Wilson to wait… then maybe we'll be okay. If they can get to him and stop him before he kills us… then… maybe… maybe…
Wilson spoke to Cuddy for less than a minute longer – House was watching the digital clock on the nightstand and knew exactly how long – before hanging up the phone and replacing it in his pocket. Without a word to House, Wilson turned around and picked up the gun again, making sure it was ready to fire.
"So… this is how it's going to end, then?" House spoke up, trying to keep his voice even and calm despite the racing of his heart in reaction to the sight of the gun in Wilson's hand. "You're just going to put a gun to my head and kill me like this? On my knees on this filthy floor, tied up and suffering?"
"That's the point, House." Wilson's voice was terse, and he very deliberately avoided making eye contact as he spoke. "I'm going to end your suffering, don't you get it? I… I'm your friend, and I care about you, and I can't… can't let you hurt anymore. That's why I'm doing this. Don't be scared; it'll be over in an instant. You won't feel it; you won't suffer."
"What if I want to suffer?" House shot back in urgent defiance, instinctively testing the bonds at his wrists, though he already knew they would hold. "What if I'd rather suffer any kind of pain than to not be alive anymore?"
Wilson let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head – still not meeting House's eyes.
"I don't believe that, House. For as long as I've known you, you've never acted like that was true. When you had the infarction, and every day since, you've made it perfectly clear to everyone around you that you were absolutely miserable – that the kind of pain you deal with every day is a fate worse than death to you. No, you've made it absolutely clear what you want – what's best for you – and this is it."
Wilson took aim with the gun as he spoke, and House's mouth went dry with fear. He cringed, struggling to maintain control as he pressed on, trying to distract Wilson for as long as possible.
"So… why like this? Why so… bloody and violent?" he questioned, looking up and hoping to catch Wilson's averted gaze. "Why not do it an easier way?"
Finally, Wilson looked at him, eyes narrowed in suspicious interest. He didn't speak, but simply quietly waited for House to go on, a question in the slight tilt of his head. House was quiet for a moment, holding Wilson's gaze for a moment before he ventured a soft, loaded question.
"How much of my Vicodin do you have on hand?"
Wilson's eyes widened with understanding, and he glanced toward his briefcase. The wondering, hesitant expression on his face told House that he probably did indeed have enough Vicodin in there to take both their lives – if they had to wait longer than the few minutes it would take help to get there, anyway.
"It would be so much easier," House softly tempted his friend, keeping his tone mild and calm, unwilling to arouse Wilson's suspicions by seeming overly eager. "We could go quietly and peacefully – just like going to sleep. Not so much violence – and a lot more poetry, don't you think?"
"I… I don't know," Wilson murmured thoughtfully, a frown creasing his brow as he set the gun down beside the briefcase and began digging through it again. "I'm… not sure…"
"Come on, Wilson," House urged him quietly, putting a note of pleading into his voice. "I don't wanna go like this. It's… bloody and ugly and it will be a nightmare for the people who find us – and I'm not just talking about the motel cleaning crew. Think of cuddy. Think of your family." He paused, a faint tremor in his lowered voice as he added, "Think of my mom."
Wilson seemed torn as he raised two orange vials in one hand, staring at it in visible indecision. He frowned, shaking his head slightly.
"No. It'll take too long. It's probably not a good idea…"
Even as he spoke, however, Wilson crossed the room to the dresser to which House was bound. He opened the vials one at a time and poured the contents out on the smooth wooden surface. One of the bottles was only about half full, but the other had not yet been touched.
"Wilson, that's more than enough for both of us," House insisted. "It wouldn't take more than an hour or two. It'd just be like going to sleep…"
"I don't know…" Wilson softly repeated, taking a few of the pills in his hand and rolling them slowly back and forth. "I'm not sure… how long we'll have… before they come looking for us."
"Surely we've got a couple of hours," House pointed out. "We didn't see anyone following us or anything…"
"It's been all over the news, House," Wilson reminded him, but the irritation all seemed to have seeped out of his voice, leaving his tone soft and pensive. "Someone might have seen us. For all we know the cops could be on their way now."
House did his best not to show any reaction to those words, so much more true than Wilson realized; and had he been dealing with someone who was not his best friend, and had not spent the last fourteen years getting to know every nuance of his expressions and reactions, they might not have picked up on anything.
But unfortunately, it was Wilson he was dealing with.
Some faint trace of something in House's expression must have given Wilson a clue that something wasn't quite right. His eyes narrowed and he dropped the pills onto the dresser, taking a menacing step nearer to House.
"Unless… that's what you're hoping for," he suggested, watching House's expression closely. "Unless you're just hoping that the process takes long enough that someone might get to us and stop us before it's over."
House was silent for a moment, considering continuing the lie – but what was the point, really? Wilson knew him too well. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand again, noting that ten minutes had already passed. The help Cuddy had promised could literally arrive at any moment.
With any luck, he could change tactics and still manage to draw things out enough to live until then.
He allowed a faint, sardonic smirk to touch his lips, though his eyes were solemn and challenging when he finally replied. "Can you really blame me, Wilson?"
"I trusted you!" Wilson snapped in rising outrage born of his mad paranoia.
"Why?" House demanded, raising his voice to match Wilson's. "Why would I actually want to help you figure out a better way to off us? I already told you, Wilson, but you just won't listen. You think you know what's best for me, but you don't give a damn what I want! I told you – I want to live."
A crashing sound at the door interrupted House's furious words, and both men turned to look toward it, eyes wide and startled. House looked back at Wilson in alarm as he rushed toward the bed and took up his gun again.
"They're here. We're out of time."
Wilson's voice was cold and determined as he raised the gun and pressed it hard against House's temple. House winced at the pain as his head was trapped between the muzzle of the weapon and the wall behind him. The sound of splintering wood from the doorway was accompanied by a bright flash of sunlight filtering through a dozen newly formed cracks in the door.
"I didn't want it to be this way, House," Wilson muttered, finger ready on the trigger. "I wanted us to have time to say goodbye."
House tried to pull away, but there was no time, as another crash turned the thin ray of light into a flood. House barely had time to process the information that the police had gotten the door down.
A moment later, a deafening shot filled the room.