KARMA
As soon as the family leaves his office, he locks the door and collapses onto the couch. He grabs a pillow and presses it against his face, stifling a scream.
How can he sit there and tell people they're dying? How can he keep telling parents that there's nothing he can do for their five-year-old daughter, who's going to die before their eyes?
Where does he get off, when he can't decide most of the time if he even wants to go on living?
He grabs a book and throws it across the room. It puts a slight dent in the drywall; a mute gesture, but a small indication of his misery.
People always think he picked this field to help people; they see his natural "gift" for comforting others and think he's some sort of wunderkind. Except for House, who thinks he chose it because he has a pathological need to absorb the misery of others.
Wilson for his part has never really examined why he chose oncology. As a constant reminder to himself that he's a piece of shit with made-up problems who doesn't deserve a bit of what he's got, perhaps?
He's physically healthy, with a good-paying job, a wife, a best friend, a car, a house, an education, the respect of his peers - and most of the time, he really does just want to throw it all away in favor of an early grave.
What a fucking asshole.
Karma should really have done the job for him by now, but he supposes that would be getting off too easy.
MEANS
Since we can die but once, what matters it,
If rope or garter, poison, pistol, sword,
Slow-wasting sickness, or the sudden burst
Of valve arterial in the noble parts,
Curtail the miseries of human life?
-Thomas Chatterton
He panics one day when he realizes - if he did suddenly have the guts to do it, how would he do it?
He has access to a galaxy of pills, of course, but he's never seriously considered going that way. If he goes, he wants to make sure he's gone; no chances for revival. He wants someone to be able to just look at him and tell there's no use trying to save him.
He doesn't trust himself to hang properly, nor does he care to bother finding a structure tall enough for a fatal fall. Drowning is always an option, but even that leaves too much room for survival.
No, the only way is with a bullet.
Violent, final, with a clear message.
He buys a small lockbox first, then drives to a gun show four hours away.
It's a wonderland of self-deliverance. He knows next to nothing about guns, just picks out something he recognizes; something familiar.
Something very familiar, in fact, though of course that's because it's one of the most popular handguns ever made. No matter, just because it's common doesn't mean it can't be special to him.
When he returns home, he feels calmer than he has in a long while.
He tucks the box safely away, reassured that if he does get the nerve, all he needs is the tiny key in his wallet to finally be done with it.
At this point he fears he never will get the nerve, but at least he's ready…
SECOND CONFERENCE
It's just a panic attack. He's a doctor, he could surely tell if it was something worse.
…The question is, would he do anything about it if it was something worse?
It's kind of hilarious that he might. Here nature might be trying to do the job for him, and he's considering trying to save himself.
There was a time when, as ambivalent as he was about living or dying, he would have happily accepted a natural death.
He wonders how concerned House would be. Maybe he should call House now, describe his symptoms, casually get a second opinion.
But he imagines House scoffing at him, telling him iof course it's just a panic attack you idiot, now we're busy so just wait until I call you to help me kill time, okay?
Bonnie knocks on the bathroom door, asks if he's okay, says they need to leave soon. He says yes, he's almost ready.
He feels her hovering outside, unsure, but then she walks off. She's expressed concern over his increasingly erratic behavior but seems to have given up on helping him. Part of him wishes she would ask House for help; part of him wonders if she already has and House just doesn't care.
Really though she would never ask House anything - there's no love lost there. Whereas Wilson is forced to go on frequent outings with House and Stacy; and he can't even be comforted by House's apparent desire to have him along, because of the way he looks at her.
Wilson would never have imagined House could look at anyone like that.
His back against the tub, Wilson draws his knees up to his chest and buries his face in his arms, his heart pounding harder and harder.
Just a panic attack. He hopes … maybe.
He stares at the suitcase next to him, trying desperately to breathe more slowly. Maybe this conference will do him some good…a few days away from House, Bonnie, the hospital…might do him good.
Or he'll spend the entire weekend trying to convince himself to die.
He won't, of course, because he's a pathetic coward. He'll trudge right back home, fall into the same routine, looking forward to nothing but the time he gets to spend alone with House.
He slams his hand against the bathtub; the jolt of physical pain and anger helps turn the self-pity back into self-loathing, which makes it much easier to get to his feet and pick up the suitcase.
INFARCTION
It wouldn't have made any difference if he had been here. He would have had no say, no power. But he could have tried…
He hates Bonnie for not telling him sooner. She had to have known the day before she told him, and she just didn't say anything because she knew he would come rushing back. And she's jealous.
Well she has every reason to be jealous. Fuck her.
Fuck all of them for doing this to him. How could they go against his wishes like that?
What if he had died? A little voice has been asking that question constantly all day, and he tells it the exact same answer every time.
Then I could have died.
The way it is, it's killing him to see House like this. Lying there, vulnerable and almost helpless and self-aware. Hating everything around him.
Except Wilson. Wilson gets a free pass because he wasn't there - he had no hand in crippling House. So maybe it was good that he wasn't there.
But still…he wishes he had had a chance to prevent it. He wishes he had sensed something wrong. He wishes he hadn't gone to that damned conference.
They're arguing now, as he waits politely outside the door to House's room. He can hear them distinctly; they're past the point of caring that people know they're fighting.
Which means it's only a matter of time before she's gone.
A small part of him hurts for House, but a much bigger part knows that he can take better care of House than she ever could - obviously, given her recent actions.
So House is really going to be much better off.
Stacy finally storms out of the room; if she even sees Wilson she doesn't acknowledge it, which is perfectly fine with him.
He closes the door behind him. He's hardly slept and he and House haven't had much alone time, and he plans to kill both of those birds by 'inadvertently' falling asleep in the chair next to House's bed.
He briefly considers calling Bonnie to tell her where he'll be tonight, but fuck it. She knows. She's probably not happy about it, but Wilson doesn't particularly care what she is or isn't happy about anymore. He's done even trying to pretend she's the most important person in his life.
House glances over as he enters the room. Wilson offers a sad smile, then drops his bag next to the chair and leans over House. "Hey," he says softly. He doesn't want to risk being condescending, so he doesn't even try to ask how House feels.
He knows how House feels. House feels like shit.
The residual anger from Stacy's visit fades in House's eyes, replaced with a weariness that grips Wilson's heart.
"Wilson," House croaks, grabbing at Wilson's arm. Wilson can tell he's pretty heavily drugged. "What would you have done?"
Wilson looks him in the eye. Drugged or not, House will remember what he says; and Wilson knows he has to tell him the truth.
"I would have waited," he says. "I would have done what you wanted, and if it had gone wrong I would have hated myself for the rest of my life." Which wouldn't have been very long, he adds in his head.
House's grip tightens as he judges Wilson's sincerity. Then, satisfied, he nods and lies back. "Are you staying tonight?"
"Of course," Wilson replies, adjusting House's blanket. "Is there anything you need?"
House gives him a look so full of drugged-up gratitude that it will keep Wilson warm on many future cold nights. "No, if you're staying then I'm good." He closes his eyes and is almost instantly asleep.
Wilson smiles to himself despite the tears forming in his eyes. He scoots the chair close to the bed and settles in; he dares anyone to tell him to leave tonight.
EXIT STACY
It's pure accident that he's there when she finally leaves for good.
Her stuff had been gone for days, and in her absence Wilson had already all but moved in. House still needed someone there a good deal of the time, and Wilson of course was all too happy to oblige.
He's just made an obligatory stop at home after work; Bonnie is not at all happy with the way things are going. But Wilson has been spinning it expertly; is he really such a bad person for wanting to help his best friend through a crisis? She has reluctantly been relenting, her complaints quieter and further apart.
And now that Stacy's leaving, Bonnie will have even less room to argue. It's only a matter of time before she leaves him, but with House's situation he doesn't even have time to pretend to care.
He's coming up the sidewalk with groceries when Stacy comes out of the building. As they pass she spits out "He's all yours now!" and keeps walking.
Wilson opens his mouth but doesn't really have anything to say. He lets himself into the apartment and calmly puts the groceries away. In his mind Stacy had already been gone, so seeing her again is a mere blip; but he doesn't know how this little reappearance might have affected House.
He finds House lying across the bed, staring at the ceiling. "…What was that about?" he asks cautiously, clicking on the bedside lamp.
"She's gone for good," House replies evenly. "Again."
Wilson sits on the edge of the bed, unsure what to say. It's not that he can't lie to House; he just can't bring himself to say he's sorry. "Are you all right?"
House is quiet for a minute. "I will be. It can't be any other way, so I'll just have to be…. I guess."
Wilson hears something in House's voice - something he always hears in his own. Something he's never before heard in House's. "Don't give up."
House looks over at him with a confused look on his face. Wilson wonders if he understands the implication. "I don't plan to."
Wilson smiles. You say that now because you're angry. "Good."
He can see in House's face the emotions that are battling in his head. "Are you staying here again tonight?"
"Yeah."
House almost seems concerned, but guilt over Wilson's home life isn't going to help either of them. "Are you hungry?" he asks quickly, before House can ask any questions of his own.
House sighs. "Starving."
"I'll get started. …Why don't you come out to the living room?"
House seems hesitant but acquiesces. Wilson doesn't help him up, but he does stay alert as he listens to every move House makes. Once House is settled on the couch and is calling for a drink, Wilson can relax and start cooking.
Keeping House alive is doing wonders for Wilson's sense of self-preservation. No one has ever truly needed him like this before...well, no one he felt he could actually help. Or maybe it had just been so long since he wanted to help someone... Well at any rate, for House to need him the way he does right now is invigorating.
He doesn't feel guilty about it because House honestly and truly does need a friend; and Wilson is House's only friend. So through the immovable force of logic, House needs Wilson.
Wilson hums a little as he pulls dishes out of the cupboard.