GUNSHOTS
But to be in love is not the same as to love. One may be in love and still hate. ~ Dostoevsky
Sometimes he hates House.
Sometimes when he thinks about House, it's like all of the love he harbors is chemically transformed into acid; an acid that burns but does not kill.
He's always felt justified in a bit of hatred; he feels like he's put a lot into this friendship and gotten nothing back except his own unfulfilled desires.
Especially since the infarction. Wilson has done so much for that asshole, and it's gotten to the point that even House's kindnesses towards him seem like mockery.
Wilson has even taken to wondering if House is leading him on. Has House had him figured out all this time? Is he just taking advantage of Wilson's feelings for his own amusement - and would he toss Wilson aside if someone more interesting came along?
More and more often it's hard for Wilson to remember the fun he's had with House, the genuine smiles he sees that no one else ever does.
He's thinking maybe House really doesn't need him. Not anymore, at least. He's long since adjusted to his crippled and cranky lifestyle, with Wilson hovering on the fringes like an unwanted puppy, spewing out pills and reassurances even when they aren't asked for.
He's probably long since become annoying, but he's still just useful enough that House doesn't mind having him around.
These pathetic attempts to build up his worthlessness have been making it hard to concentrate on work, and he's doodling circles on a patient file one afternoon when he hears gunshots.
It takes a moment for him to react; though his ears tell him otherwise, he knows that can't possibly have sounded as close as it did.
He calmly gets up and walks onto the balcony, refusing to process the shouts he can hear on the other side of the wall.
He walks just far enough into House's office to see House on the floor. In the commotion no one notices he's there, or that he backs immediately out, or that he goes back into his office, and sits back down at his desk, and starts doodling circles again.
If he's doodling circles, he's not getting the gun out of his desk drawer.
The circles lose some of their shape as his eyesight becomes blurred.
KETAMINE
He refuses to let House give up so easily.
He hates the idea of House in pain, but he likes the idea of House off the Vicodin too much to write another prescription just yet.
It's been so much like old times here lately…. In some ways House has been even more insufferable than usual, but now he's shoving his happiness in everyone's faces, and Wilson is more than happy to be annoyed by a House who's cheerful for reasons other than just Wilson's annoyance.
It's been such a relief for Wilson to see the relief in House.
And when House came to him, telling him the pain was coming back, Wilson's heart froze and his immediate reaction was to shower House in pills.
But he knows that's not necessarily what's best for House right now, even if House thinks it is.
And if House remains convinced that the treatment has failed and he needs the pills again, well then there will be no telling him otherwise, and he'll badger Wilson until he gets his way. Like usual.
But maybe House is just overreacting to a bit of pain after such a euphoric period of its absence; maybe he can adjust to taking less pain meds at least.
At any rate it can't hurt to let him sweat it out for another few days…
TRITTER
He sits at the desk in his hotel room, staring at the bottle of pills.
Why does this feel like he's chickening out?
Because it is chickening out.
The last few weeks are tangled in his mind, and as he tries to unravel them he tracks the headlights of passing cars below.
The two signatures looked nothing alike. But he lied, lied without hesitation, lied because it was the only option. Lied to buy time, always buying time he didn't really want. He could tell the cop didn't believe him, and he could tell it wasn't over, and he spent that night much like this one, staring at traffic and trying to organize his thoughts.
House seemed awfully flippant about Wilson's lying to the cops for him. As far as House knows, Wilson cares about his life, his career. Where does House get off just expecting Wilson to give it all up for him?
…Well, he expected it based on over a decade's worth of precedent. It's just as much Wilson's fault that House takes advantage of him like this.
And the pain, oh the pain in House's shoulder - House's body feels remorse, even if his mind never does. It's a tiny comfort to Wilson, but a comfort nonetheless.
He doesn't know what to do, he has no idea what to do now. He thought he had done the right thing, he thought he was saving House and everyone else; he's risking himself here, too. And House just … and everyone else just …
Well really there's only one solution now. Without Wilson, there's no case, so clearly Wilson needs to buck the fuck up and do what's really right, but then Christmas Eve comes and -
-what the fuck you do this instead of coming to me?! He wants to scream, to cry, to hold House, to hit him. I've always been there for you, I stayed alive for you, and you fucking do this? He can't do anything. He can't do anything but leave, because he doesn't know what he'll do if he stays- I hope you do die, I hope you die and I'm going to blow my brains out right at your fucking funeral so everyone knows you killed me tonight, too-
-oh God I'm sorry I didn't mean it I'm glad you're alive and I'm here, for now, at least...
He's relieved when he sees House in rehab, even though he doesn't really believe it, because if House is in rehab than in a sense House is okay, and when House apologizes it hits Wilson like a physical blow and he still can't get a grip on his thoughts - because whether you know it or not you need me and I don't even care that you faked your way through it all like you always do because that's who you are and if I had a problem with that I would have left you a long time ago-
And now here they are. Back to normal, as it were.
But Wilson's still terrified, afraid that his friendship with House won't go back to normal, afraid that House will resent him; even though every time Wilson tallies it up in his head, House is just as much to blame for all of this as he is.
No matter. He can hardly breathe for the panic attacks, and if he's not going to man up and do the job, then he'll need some help to function.
And if things go okay, and they really do get back to normal, a little extra help wouldn't hurt then, either.
He swallows a pill, still staring out the window.
LISTLESS
The anti-depressants aren't working.
Well…if they're supposed to make him spend entire evenings lying in the middle of the bed, staring at the ceiling, the television on mute - well then they're working like a charm.
Things have actually seemed all right with House, at least. Maybe even better than usual, like they're trying to make up for precious weeks of lost screwing-around time.
It's good, though. House doesn't bother screwing with people he doesn't like; and frankly, Wilson doesn't, either. It's much less effort to just be nice to people who aren't worth the time for anything else.
He just feels … so … listless. Aimless. Rudderless. And he's not going to find the answers in this damned hotel room, but he doesn't feel like looking anywhere else.
It doesn't even bother him that he's still here, that he apparently has no desire to move anywhere else.
Well, why should he move anywhere else? This is a bit more expensive than an actual apartment, but he's willing to pay for the luxury of not having to find an actual apartment.
Alone.
He just doesn't want to, and he doesn't have to, and besides he's gotten used to the hum of the hotel air conditioner. Hard to replicate that.
His cell phone rings, but it's all the way on the end table. It's just House, anyway. Probably hungry and bored, just like Wilson is. Well, he can wait a few more hours until Wilson's done moping.
But surprisingly, Wilson's reaching for the phone almost immediately. Somehow the thought of leaving this hotel room, buying food, and eating food with House doesn't seem as laborious as it has all week.
It actually sounds - fun.
Maybe the anti-depressants are working.
Maybe House should try them.
PLUSH
Dozens upon dozens of patients have given Wilson presents over the years. His office is cluttered as hell with them, and normally he barely notices them past the moment the patient leaves. They're all just there, to collect dust and occasionally for House to make fun of.
But today a young girl – a girl with a good fighting chance, at least – gave him a stuffed cat. It's a rather small stuffed cat, white with plastic eyes so large he can see himself in them.
He stares at his tiny reflection in that cat's eyes until his eyes start to water. Before he can stop it he's crying, holding the cat against his face and crying helplessly into its fur.
He should stop. It's not safe to cry here in his office, when House could come in at any moment. But the softness of the toy against his skin just feels so soothing, he can't stop. The tears pour out of him until the cat's fur is soaked, until all of his misery is at least temporarily transferred into a five-dollar toy a potentially dying child gave him.
A toy the child gave him because he's such a good doctor…such a nice doctor. He's a comfort to her, so she gave him something to thank him. …Something that has wound up comforting him, unbeknownst to her.
Eventually the tears do stop, and Wilson smooths the cat's fur as his breathing hiccups to normal.
Fortunately it's just small enough to fit in one of the pockets of his lab coat without being seen.
Of course House may still notice it, being House; but the weight of the cat in his pocket is such a silly little comfort that it's a risk he's willing to take.
NEAR DEATH (97 SECONDS)
He watches House sleep, knocked blissfully unconsciousness by the extra pain medication. Struck by this turn of events, he turns the clipboard over and over in his hands.
House has long played rather loose with his life, obviously, but such a blatant disregard for it...
It wasn't a suicide attempt proper, of course, just House's near-fatal curiosity; but it's still a hell of a lot closer than Wilson's ever gotten, and he's fidgety with jealousy.
And then that flippant little comment. ...Or was it flippant? Was it maybe more genuine than House would ever let on?
And the knife-in-the-socket thing - what if House understands more than Wilson realizes? And the...the words...
Damn House and his ability to just fucking do and say what he wants, Wilson scowls ruefully as he tosses the clipboard above his head. Especially when it's exactly what I want to do and say.
"Asshole," he sighs, not without affection, and replaces the clipboard at the foot of the bed.
MISDIAGNOSED
Goddammit, why couldn't the asshole have just been happy he was going to fucking live?
The hypocrisy is not lost on Wilson, who nonetheless is incensed. He's already taken some of it out on House, who deserved a fair amount of it; but now he's back in his office, fuming.
He's also trying unsuccessfully to keep the what ifs from crowding his brain.
Well, just one big "what if," actually.
What happens when he misdiagnoses the other way?
He's had to run multiple tests before, of course, and get second opinions; he's had to express cautious optimism countless times. But he's never flat-out told anyone they were perfectly fine when they weren't.
Maybe he's just been lucky; and if that happens, what then?
Most people would call what happened in this situation an "honest mistake," but tell that to the person who thought they were going to live to see their kids graduate high school…
He rests his head in his hands, panicking over something that may never happen.
It can't happen…. He can't put other people's lives in danger just because he doesn't know if he wants his anymore.
If things don't change, he's really going to have to do something soon…