Poison and Wine
Chapter 14
All House wanted to do was change the subject.
He was willing to talk about anything else. Starving children in Africa, the deficit, the annoyingly cheery sunshine pouring through the window. The latest breakthrough treatment for lupus. Anything, anything, but this.
But a death pact was a death pact, and for once he'd made a promise he intended to keep.
"It'll be easy," Wilson was saying. It was about a week after their discussion at the lake, his rapid decline noticeable even in such a short amount of time. They lay side-by-side in their own beds, House using the extra room to stretch out his leg.
"Easy," House repeated quietly. The word sounded foreign to him. Empty.
Wilson nodded. "You were taking a nap in the living room…you came back and the bottle was empty. There was nothing you could do."
House stared down at the full bottle of Vicodin twirling between his fingers. "And I left it here with a glass of water because…I'm an idiot?"
"Because the pills were for you, and the water was for me. And you trusted me." Wilson offered him a sad smile. "I'm not letting you go down for this, House."
"You think I care about that?"
"You should. I do, in any case." Wilson's hand clamped weakly around his, tugging gently. "Hey. We gotta do this while I can still swallow, you know."
"Not funny," House muttered.
Wilson sighed, eyes drifting up to the ceiling as if searching for some sort of miraculous answer. "You could pretend I'm Thirteen," he tried at last. "I am practically her weight by now."
"No boobs," House pointed out.
"Ah." Wilson nodded in mock serious agreement. "How could I forget the boobs?"
"Didn't seem to take you long."
"Speak for yourself."
They let the silence take over save for the occasional rattle of pills, hands still clasped across the beds and eyes fixated anywhere but at each other. The humming of the hospital equipment had become commonplace, background noise, a forgotten soundtrack to a movie that could only go on for so long.
At length, Wilson turned to him again. "What'll you miss the most?" he asked.
"Don't," House said, his stern glare matching his tone. "Don't think that using whatever crap you still remember from your psych rotation is going to make this all okay."
"I never thought that," Wilson replied gently. "I'm genuinely curious."
House frowned, but eventually he caved. "You first."
"I'll miss…I'll miss watching you sleep."
"You're going to miss the one time of day that I do absolutely nothing?"
"It's not nothing, House. It's feeling you breathe, watching your eyelids move, wondering what you're dreaming about." Wilson smiled broadly, continuing. "You'd turn in closer, reach out for me, even say my name in your sleep. Bet you didn't know that."
"Wouldn't have done it if I did," House retorted, though his lips quirked in response.
Wilson poked him. "Your turn."
House's expression grew serious as he thought. Suddenly his eyes lit up, and he grinned. "The sex," he declared, and Wilson let out a snort.
"Don't make me laugh," he sputtered. "Hurts."
House grabbed the oxygen mask as Wilson's laughs turned into coughs, holding his own breath until Wilson finally steadied his breathing. "I can get the cannula."
Wilson waved the mask away. "Is there really any point?"
House supposed not, and Wilson sighed.
"C'mere," he murmured, tugging his hand again.
House scooted closer as Wilson moved just enough to make room for them both on the hospital bed. They fell comfortably together, House's arm wrapped around Wilson's shoulders as Wilson's head rested on his chest.
"I want you to be happy," Wilson said quietly.
"I'll be fine."
"I mean it, House. Not just sit-around-all-day-with-beer-and-porn happy."
"How much more happy can I get?" House pointed out.
"Go to work, abuse your team, annoy Cuddy," Wilson continued firmly. "Do whatever you have to do to stay functioning and get out of the house. Promise?"
"Yes, mom."
"And promise me that you won't kill yourself."
House glanced down in surprise. "Metaphorically speaking?"
"I'm not an idiot, as much as you like to disagree. I know there'll be plenty more left after I down those pills."
"Some credit you give me," House muttered.
"Or maybe I just know you better than you know yourself."
"Yeah. Five years gone and you've got me all figured out."
"Always did," Wilson countered gently.
"Except the part about…"
"Yeah," Wilson murmured. "Would've been nice to have figured out that particular detail."
House hugged him closer, letting Wilson's hair graze his cheek. "Wilson."
"Hmm?"
"This sucks."
"Yeah." Wilson burrowed deeper, resting a soothing hand on House's bad thigh. "I know."
"You spend half your life working in oncology and then the universe turns around and lands you with this garbage. I'll probably end up with lupus next."
"Maybe things happen for a reason and maybe they don't," Wilson shrugged. "But I think if there was a reason, you would've found it. You're good at that."
House paused. "I should have followed you to Vegas," he said.
Wilson's expression softened. "We both should've done a lot of things, House."
"I shouldn't have given up on you."
"You didn't give up on me this time, even when I wanted you to. And I never should have left in the first place."
"You had good reason to leave."
"Just as you had good reason to stay." Wilson raised his head, planting a kiss on House's cheek. "Another thing you have to promise me: no regrets."
House grunted. "Bossy, much?"
"I learn from the best."
With a deep breath, House's gaze returned briefly to the catalyst in his hand before moving back to Wilson. "Are you ready?"
Wilson managed a flicker of a smile. "Are you?"
"Doesn't matter."
"Of course it matters," Wilson replied gently.
In response, House popped the lid on the Vicodin bottle, turning Wilson's palm upwards as he emptied the pills. He reached over to grab the glass of water as Wilson glanced back at him once more.
"You can still say no," Wilson reminded him.
House shook his head. "A deal's a deal."
"I don't have to do this. I can wait it out, we can – "
"This isn't you being selfish," House said quietly. "It's me."
Wilson held his gaze, as if waiting for either of them to have a change of heart, but at length he nodded. It took several rounds to down all of the pills, taking a couple at a time as House held the straw to his lips.
The empty bottle was tossed to the foot of the bed. House held Wilson tightly to his chest, not knowing how many minutes had passed before Wilson spoke again.
"You know," he murmured sleepily, "there was this song I heard out in LA, at a folk concert I went to with Amber. And the whole time, all I could think about was you."
"Was it Sexy Back?"
"You wish. It was by a new duo…The Civil Wars."
"What was wrong with the War of 1812?"
"The song was called Poison and Wine," Wilson continued, ignoring him. "The lyrics…God, those lyrics. I remember Amber reaching over to take my hand, and I realized I was crying." He inhaled slowly, deliberately, savoring the feeling of the air entering his lungs. "You should look it up sometime, maybe find the chords. The piano part is beautiful."
House's gaze remained steady, the deepening pit in his stomach numbed by the familiarity of his mind in action. The mental gears whirred as he memorized Wilson the way he would have memorized a diagram in a textbook – the placement of his features, the dimensions, the colors, the textures. He took in deep brown eyes like the addictive rush of afternoon coffee, absorbed the peaceful smile of a man in the final moments of a paradise found too late. Beads of sweat began to seep into his grip and he held on tighter, not ready to close the book yet. Just one more minute, one more second, one more instant of clarity before he had to face the future alone.
What'll you miss the most?
I'll miss the way you made the world make sense.
"Wilson," he whispered.
"Yeah, House?" Wilson murmured back.
"I love you."
Lips pressed against lips, and then there was silence. House closed his eyes against the slow, steady force that he couldn't stop, feeling the grip of Wilson's hand ease ever so slightly in his own.
And when he opened them again, Wilson was gone.
TBC (Epilogue)