Disclaimer: I own nothing. This isn't slash, momentarily. Rated M for angst. Thanks for all the reviews; meant the world to me.
Stop, It Hurts.
"I don't care what you do, but bring him in. I need to talk to him. It's been over a week, and he's ignoring all my phone calls-"
"Lisa, I can't. He's ignoring my phone calls, too." Wilson found himself saying for the third, or fourth? time.
"He ignores everyone at a lot of points in his life. You always manage to break through."
Wilson couldn't find himself to repeat what the acquaintance from the institute told him before he'd left. How House had made it so that the friendship never existed. How he thought it was all a hallucination.
Wilson felt a pang as he realized this. It really did hurt – What would make House think their friendship meant nothing?
"I'm giving you a day off. Spend this day to get House to me by tomorrow." She looked up now, from her paperwork. Wilson was startled to see her eyes shining brightly. "Please."
Dumbfounded, Wilson nodded, and turned around. He left her office and closed the door behind her. Knowing that the wall was see through, he waited until he left the building and got inside his car before he found tears falling from his face.
People care about you, House. How could you think that that was all a figment of your imagination? What would make you think less?
---
Gregory House was staring at the wall opposite of him blankly. There was a glass of scotch in his hand.
The past week, he downed himself in alcohol, trying to forget his realization of what a pathetic life he lived. Now he realized that he did have one highlight of his life that he might actually lose if he went on the way he did –
His job.
The psychiatrist had tried in vain (and succeeded) to convince him that he really was one of the best diagnosticians in the world- That people all over the world would come around to see him.
That's probably why Cuddy had been calling. She couldn't bear to lose one of her top employees.
Then again, maybe Cuddy had been calling him so much to tell him that she couldn't afford to have a crazy person who hallucinated having sex with her to work for her?
After all…Surely, Wilson would've told her.
If he hadn't, however…That would mean he still had a chance. After all, Cuddy had taken House back in after several stints of rehab.
Then again, what stopped Wilson from telling?
His nice guy attitude that you took advantage of.
House heard a crash and looked down at his hand from the blank wall. His hand was shaking. The glass of scotch-Ah. He dropped it.
He looked down at the floor and saw the shattered pieces of glass. He'd have to clean that up.
How could someone like him, someone who claimed to be oh so rational, make up such an irrational world? Have a friend like Wilson who would WANT him around, after all he'd done to him? That was completely irrational. After all, who'd want to spend time with someone like him? Who actually pushed people away, pointed at their flaws...Killed their girlfriends..
He sighed, remembering all the phone calls, all the voice mails. From Wilson. For someone who didn't really care, he put up a really good façade. Probably afraid he'd kill himself. Cuddy probably told him to make sure nothing was different from before he'd left.
Wow, he must've been rather clingy.
House leaned back against his couch and looked up at the ceiling.
He killed Wilson's girlfriend. How is it that he remembered Wilson telling him that they'd never been friends, yet…
All the exasperation in the glances Wilson gave him, why didn't House read more into them? What had made House conclude that Wilson would tolerate him nonetheless?
Hell, House had even driven Wilson away from his job…
He came back.
That was because he was a nice person, though.
Pathetically clingy. That's what you are.
His best friend…All the things that happened between him and his best friend…
House found himself shaking again.
How's it feel to realize the best things in your life were all things you wanted to happen so badly that you hallucinated all of them?
Some sort of noise that was completely foreign to his ears ripped its way through his throat.
He covered his face in his hands and leaned his elbows onto his knees.
He was still shaking.
---
Wilson was still driving to 221B – House's apartment. As he stopped his car at a red light, he decided to let House know he was coming over. Maybe he'd answer the door this time.
What makes this time different from all the others?
Wilson had absolutely no idea. Nonetheless, the phone was in his hand, and he was dialing that all too familiar number.
---
When the phone rang, House found himself jerk. Surprised at himself, House resumed back to mopping up the alcohol he'd spilt. The phone had run countless times throughout the day the past week, and he'd actually started to tune them out.
He supposed he was still jumpy from actually facing reality, what he'd done earlier.
Not really facing reality. Just not denying it.
"House?" Wilson, again. Yet, his hand, holding the cloth, stopped scrubbing. "House, I know you're there." House shivered. The voice was so…His hallucination had made sure everything down to a tee. ALl the conversations, at his house, at Wilson's house. Wilson's voice sounded as if it was shaking-
With worry? With concern? Or with fear?
If he'd been Wilson, he would've moved to another state. House pretty much stalked him, harassed him, all on a day to day basis. Hell, he'd have stayed far, far away from him for a very long time.
It was odd that Wilson jumped right back up.
Maybe...
No.
It was probably his own fault, making Wilson so accustomed to his being.
The voice was still talking.
"…and if you don't open the door, I'm using the spare key you gave me. House, you know we need to talk. I'm almost there."
Click. He'd hung up.
Spare key? House actually felt his blood turn cold. Was he hallucinating again?
No, you've been off the Vicodin for far too long.
Schizophrenia?
They would've diagnosed it before you left.
Maybe he'd bypassed it someway? He didn't put it past himself…
Maybe you gave him the spare key randomly when you thought he'd moved in with you?
House sighed. All the times Wilson had been in all those marriages, House thought he spent most of those times with himself.
You can't blame yourself. You had a fucked up childhood. And Wilson worked right next to you. He was a nice guy.
But he'd met him before that, hadn't he?
Unless that was a hallucination too.
When did they start, then? The hallucinations... Or maybe they had always been friends. Just not best friends.
Vicodin started after Stacy left. You and Wilson got closer after Stacy left. Well, you thought you did.
He felt nauseous. This always happened when he tried to dig at what had been placed to him oh so blatantly.
So, then, rationalize why Wilson is coming over, won't you?
Cuddy probably told him to check up on him.
House pulled himself to his feet and found his cane. He dropped the cloth onto the coffee table and leaned on his cane.
He looked down at his cane.
All the times he'd made Wilson pay for his things, bail him out of jail…
He let himself smile a little. They had had fun though, a lot of fun. Or was that all fake too? The jokes, the pranks…
Oh, his head.
House let the cane fall to the ground with a loud clatter and took a step back, clutching his head in his hands.
He needed to forget…
Just wait until Wilson comes. That way, when he leaves, he won't tell Cuddy about what a drunk you've been.
Somehow, he ended up on the floor, still wet with some of the alcohol. He felt some glass that he must've missed cut into left thigh. There was a pang in his right thigh from the sudden movement.
And his head still hurt.
He positioned his body so that he was sitting on the floor with his back against the bottom part of the couch. He straightened out his right leg, groaning a little. He saw some drops of blood from where the glass was cutting into his other leg. He made no move to prevent further injury.
After all, the pain itself took his mind off of things.
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