Poison and Wine

Chapter 13

A/N: If you've seen "In the Gloaming," certain aspects of the last few chapters may seem familiar. (Haven't decided if I'll have 1 more chapter or 2, but definitely gearing up for the end. Thanks for bearing with me!)

It was funny, Wilson thought, how quickly the last of the summer heat gave way to the cool, late September air.

What wasn't as funny was how much it sucked to be dying.

Sometimes it would hit him late at night, curled up with House in a bed that was too small for the both of them, that he couldn't remember things. He'd forgotten the taste of a good steak, for example, or the feeling of the hardwood floor against his feet, or how to breathe without acknowledging the effort. And the pills couldn't mask all of the pain, even in combination with House's hand in his own. A week had gone by, then two and then three, and as the dates kept time with his increasing levels of pain, he often wondered if there had ever been a point to it all.

But then there'd be a moment – House's beard gently tickling Wilson's cheek, or the lingering taste of a lollipop in his kiss, or even the gentle thumping of his cane as he neared the bedroom door – and Wilson would remember. And he'd place a soothing hand on House's thigh, rubbing comfort into the mangled flesh beneath the mask of denim. There wasn't much left that he could do, but this was one thing that he could, and he hoped it was enough.

Today they were sitting at the lake, at Wilson's request. His wheelchair was parked next to House's bench, with Chase and Foreman waiting idly further down the path. They'd draped him in sweaters and blankets, a wool hat placed firmly over his head; the IV was temporarily removed, but the blankets hid the drainage bag and the oxygen tank was nestled in the back. House sat quietly beside him, content in a light fall jacket with a thermos of hot coffee between his hands and his cane draped over his arm.

A slight breeze wafted through the air, and House inched closer. "You warm enough?" he asked.

Wilson nodded, lifting his oxygen mask to his face with a gloved hand. He'd insisted that his nasal passages needed a break, but really, he just hated the way that the cannula had made him feel – tied down, restricted, attached to a machine. It wasn't much, but there was a sense of freedom in the alternative mask, an ability to control exactly when it was that breathing would become a little easier.

Stacy had returned a couple of weeks ago, and he'd signed the necessary papers and said his goodbyes – beyond the legal role that she'd need to assume later, there was no reason for her to keep coming back to a place that reopened old wounds. Cuddy, who'd accepted the executor position without hesitation, stopped by the apartment every once in a while, checking on the medical supplies and keeping House's kitchen stocked so that he wouldn't starve.

It was funny, Wilson thought, how the women in House's life seemed to be returning just as Wilson had weaseled his way back in.

God, a lot of stupid shit seemed funny these days.

Minus dying.

He slowly removed the mask, letting his hand drop back down to his lap. "House?"

House took a sip of coffee, his eyes fixated on the lake. "Yeah?"

The smallest hint of a smile crossed Wilson's face, and House turned to see what was taking him so long to reply.

"I love you," Wilson said at last, and let the welcome wave of comfort wash over him. There was more he could contribute than just leg massages, it seemed.

The quiet resumed. They were practically alone, save for Foreman and Chase kicking pebbles along the edge of the water and the stray bird here and there avoiding the traditional migration southward. Beside him, House seemed to be breathing, thinking, the thermos turning circles between his palms.

Wilson decided to nudge him further. "I hadn't said it yet. Figured now was as good a time as any."

"You don't have to say it," House replied quietly.

"I know."

House sighed, glaring at him a little. "Now I'm going to look like an ass if I don't say it back."

"You always look like an ass," Wilson retorted. "But it's okay. You don't have to say it back."

"Why not?"

"Because saying it makes it real, and then what's happening to me becomes real, and all of that psychological bullcrap." Wilson shrugged, taking a breath from the mask again. "Neither of us needs to say it, but I wanted to."

"So the fact that you said it means you're fine with all of this cancer-eating-up-your-insides garbage."

"And the fact that you said that means you've implicitly accepted my psychological bullcrap, thereby validating it."

"Except that you can't validate bullcrap," House retorted.

Wilson smiled again, knowing he'd won.

House sighed and took another sip of coffee. "Anything else you want to get off your chest?"

Wilson paused for a few moments, thinking. "When did you know that you loved me?" he finally asked.

"What kind of a question is that?" House frowned.

"A legitimate one."

"You know it's always been there."

"Yeah, but I mean…there's gotta be a point, a moment, when you just know. Like your epiphanies, right? The answer's been there all along, but then that light bulb goes off in your head, and it's just…it's beautiful."

House snorted softly. "Jesus, Wilson."

"Oh, c'mon, House. Humor me a little."

House looked like he was about to protest, but at length he shrank back into his jacket, caving in to Wilson's request. He stared down at the thermos, blue eyes darkened by its reflection.

"It was Amber," he said at last, "when you asked if I would help her. I knew I couldn't say no…but it wasn't for her."

Wilson grimaced in a way that had nothing to do with his physical pain.

"Your turn," House said, turning back to him.

"It was the same," Wilson shrugged, surprised to find that he wasn't surprised at all. "It was that moment, when I asked you."

House waited for an explanation, and Wilson sighed. "I was hurting," he said quietly. "I needed Amber to live, because she was the only piece of you that I had. And when I asked you…God, I wanted to kill myself. But then I thought…if you died…maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe I could stop thinking about you and move on. And then I knew."

He lifted the oxygen mask and inhaled deeply, as if illness was the only reason why it was suddenly so hard to breathe, aware of House's crystal eyes gently bearing into him.

"And then you left," House said.

Wilson nodded, removing the mask. "And then I left."

Foreman and Chase were jogging back to them, looking concerned. "You okay, Wilson?" Foreman asked. "If you're getting cold, we should get you back home."

"I'm fine, guys," Wilson assured them, managing a smile. "Just a little while longer, okay?"

House nodded his approval, and the two doctors returned to their former positions at a respectful distance away.

"So you're fine with this cancer-eating-your-insides thing," he said again, once they'd gone. A statement, not a question.

Wilson shrugged. "I think I have to be."

"No, you don't."

"What happened to just accepting that life sucks, and moving on?"

"What happened to, 'Oh, House, my two-year-old patients were braver than me?'" House countered mockingly. "What happened to crying in a puddle of pee on my bed, telling me you couldn't do it?"

"What happened was that I stopped having time to be scared, because I was too busy trying to stop the pain from killing me first," Wilson replied calmly, accepting House's sharp remark as an indication of the diagnostician's own fear. "Maybe death doesn't seem so unwelcome anymore."

He glanced over at House, his expression unwavering. "Maybe your death pact doesn't seem so unwelcome anymore, either."

He continued on when House didn't answer. "These past few weeks I've done nothing but let you love me, even more than when I first came back. On bad days, I kept saying to myself – why the hell am I bothering? But of course, you were the reason why."

He felt House's hand slip into his, and he smiled at the warmth.

"Dying was scary because I felt like there'd be so much I was missing," Wilson added quietly. "But what Thirteen said about time…it's so true. All the time we could've had, should've had – none of that matters. Because the time we have had, and the time we do have? I couldn't have asked for anything more."

"Didn't realize Thirteen was such a genius."

"You wouldn't have hired her if she wasn't."

House paused, thinking again. "If I kill you," he said at last, "the time we have left will be…"

"Gone," Wilson agreed. "A memory that you'll never have to have."

The details of the end-stage days didn't need to be said. House squeezed Wilson's hand, signing off on the pact.

"So you're okay," he said.

"Yeah," Wilson nodded. "Yeah, I'm okay. And you will be, too."

House snorted. "Yeah. I'm fucking fantastic. I can't even…" He glanced away, eyes glinting in a subtle sign of shame that only Wilson had learned to recognize with ease. "You should hate me, for all the things I haven't said to you."

Wilson shook his head. "Haven't you learned by now, House? It isn't what you say – it's what you do. And I love you for it."

Another breeze rattled through the air, and House squeezed Wilson's hand again. "We should head back," he said. "It's cold, and time's a-wastin'."

Wilson smirked, using the elastic band to secure the oxygen mask in place as House whistled for Foreman and Chase to return.

"We aren't dogs, you know," Foreman sighed, taking the handlebars as Chase bent down to release the locks on the wheelchair.

"No, you're my slaves," House retorted. "Don't make me get my whip out. You wouldn't mind if I borrowed our little toy, would you, Wilson?"

"No offense, Dr. Wilson, but I hope your boyfriend treats you better than he treats us," Chase muttered as he stood, brushing the stray gravel from his slacks.

House patted Chase on the head before beginning to lead the way back, heading to where they'd parked the hospital's borrowed medivan. "It isn't about what I say," he called breezily over his shoulder, a sly smirk on his face.

Wilson only smiled through the mask, and the wheels began to turn.

TBC