3.
Most people claim that during particularly distressing times, they remember things in a blur – a moment here, a moment there, but nothing continuous by any means. For House, it had always been the opposite – mundane things came and went, but the important things were always one fluid memory, like a scene shot in a single take. His mom used to joke that the blueness of his eyes made everything seem much clearer, and that was what made him so intuitive and clever.
He remembered shoving the paramedics out of the way and administering the EKG himself, setting up the IV and hanging the bag of fluids. He remembered Wilson fading in and out of consciousness, remembered the look of panic his face when he came above the surface far enough to realize what exactly had happened.
They arrived in the ER and were immediately intercepted by Cuddy, whose face changed from confused to concerned to downright terrified in three quick stages of emotion. "What did you do?" she accused loudly, the soft padding of her slippers accelerating as her pace quickened. He felt a surprising twinge of hurt from Cuddy's accusation – as if House would've allowed, let alone caused, Wilson's current state. "House," she tried, the syllable caught in her throat. She tried again, hoarser this time. "House."
The conversation would have to wait – Wilson was triaged immediately, and House stuck around long enough to ensure that he would live. His stomach was pumped and charcoal was forced into his body, a foul substance that absorbed the leftover toxins in an attempt to not completely destroy his liver. House settled himself into a chair in the waiting room, not at all surprised when Cuddy stood in front of him.
"House."
That seemed to be the go-to, didn't it? His last name, a noun, a safe haven. The thing that said it all, but said nothing as pretext.
"House."
"Enough." House spat the word out at her feet. "I'll talk. Give me a second," he bargained.
Cuddy took this as a cue to curl up into the chair next to him. Her eyes prodded, but did not poke, him.
He finally found his voice. "He's still upset about Amber," he offered, a useless statement. Cuddy nodded, urging him to go on. "He tried to talk to me today, and I pushed him away. He called me and asked me to come over, and I pushed him away." House shoved his fingertips into the corners of his eyes, trying to will away the guilt. "I didn't notice until after the phone call that my recently filled Vicodin prescription was no longer in my drawer."
Cuddy cursed under her breath.
"Broke my way into his apartment, and then into his bathroom. Found him with the empty prescription and an empty fifth, and a lot of vomit." House stopped to let it sink in, then added: "Took some elbow grease and CPR, but I managed to get his heart going again."
His boss, usually so put together, always balanced on the balls of her feet to strike at whatever came her way, wavered. Her eyebrows knitted in the middle of her forehead. "I heard you on the phone," she said in a haunted whisper. "I've never heard you sound so…"
"Miserable?" House answered. Pause. "Terrified?" Another pause. "Alone?" The last word was eerily empty. "I bat an eye and someone dies. I killed Amber. I almost killed him."
"You didn't kill Amber." Cuddy met House's gaze, unsure of how to continue. Yes, House had presumably been a total ass to Wilson, forcing him to a point of feeling completely isolated and alone when he was most vulnerable. But was it fair, or even accurate, to pin the entirety of Wilson's suicide attempt on House? Of course it wasn't.
House continued without letting Cuddy finish. "People can be broken, or have things that break them down over time. It's when they lose a sense of community that they feel all is lost. The bullied high school kid feels left out, so she sticks her head in an oven. The post-traumatic soldier comes home and no one understands him, so he fills himself with lead. A successful doctor loses a woman he truly loves, and his best friend tells him he's a moron for being upset." He dumped his head into his lap again. "If you were wondering, the best friend is actually the moron," he added as an afterthought.
Cuddy said nothing, simply placing her hand on top of House's, offering a gentle stroke. "You saved his life," was all she said.
"After I almost killed him." House tilted his head back and closed his eyes, searching feebly for peace.
He awoke with a start. 7:01. The clock on the wall had mocked him for an hour or so into the early morning, but eventually he had succumbed to a few hours of dreamless sleep. Cuddy had insisted he go home – had gone home herself – but House remained glued to the uncomfortable chair of the waiting room, letting Wilson sleep off the narcotic stupor he had forced himself into.
Seven hours, though, should've been enough time, House assumed, considering the fluids, the stomach pumping, the charcoal. Was it enough time to prepare House for what he was about to walk into? There wasn't an answer for that, and he knew it.
He pushed his aching body from the chair, surprised when his limbs didn't take the shape of the thing. His thigh was stiff, his head was pounding, and his heart was sad. It was strange to think the events of the previous night had happened. Even stranger that House felt such a range of emotions that he hadn't experienced in a while.
The room they had placed him in was small, but quiet, appropriate for his situation. The blinds were shut, per Cuddy's orders, and as few doctors and staff as possible were notified of his condition. He would live – it was certain. He would practice, as long as he accepted the counseling they offered him. He just needed to get through the next couple of months without going for a second round of taking himself out.
The sun was just beginning to poke its obnoxiously happy face through the windows. The glass of the door gave way as House struggled toward it, his joints cracking as he advanced into the room. Wilson was still asleep, but his stats were normal. Too bad they didn't have a measurement for the remarkable headache he was about to feel.
Never sure how to handle awkward silences, House elected to advance across the room and select the bedpan from one of the shelves, dropping it noisily and intentionally to the floor. It landed with an ear-shattering clatter. Wilson jumped as if he had been electrocuted, and then immediately regretted his reflexive reaction. A hand found his forehead as his mind caught up with where he was, why he was, and what had happened. When it did, his expression instantly changed to one of shame and sorrow.
It was uncomfortable. Neither of them could deny it.
House's mind was dancing, trying to pick words that would suffice to close the gap that had formed between them. Wilson was ashamed of himself, House could tell, but whether it was because of the incident or because House had been the one to find him was anybody's guess.
He decided it was best to skip the introductions. "You tried to use the gun," House stated, but not in his usual mocking tone. It was softer. Patient, even.
Wilson stared into his clasped hands, clammy with panic and nervousness. He nodded his head somberly, nothing to add to the statement.
House continued in the same tone. "But you missed." Another pause, another mile of space and time between them. As strong as he tried to come off, as indifferent as he worked to be, House could not unsee the image of Wilson on his bathroom floor with a gun inches from his left hand. "Not to worry, because the pills and the booze did the job alone."
Clearly less prepared to talk about it than House was, Wilson pressed his head into his palms, shaking his head. He continued shaking, seeming to be at a loss for words. "I'm sorry," he uttered, and, for the first time since Amber's death, Wilson erupted into sobs.
House froze in his place for a moment, still standing over the loud-mouthed bedpan. His breath caught in his throat but then sought its way out, flowing into the stagnant air of the room.
"You've watched me die plenty of times." House's way of comforting him.
"Not from suicide," Wilson managed.
This brought a genuine half-smile to House's lips. "Yes," House sarcastically agreed, "because running into an outlet with a pocketknife isn't considered suicide."
"They were all for medical reasons!" Wilson argued. "Never because you were so pathetic that you couldn't hold yourself together!"
The tears came again, less intense, but still present. House found himself limping toward the bedside, unsure of what his motives were.
"You know how I say everybody lies?"
Wilson nodded mid-sob.
"Everyone's also an idiot."
He choked on laughter.
House leant forward toward his friend, stalling for a moment. Was he really going to do this? Was he going to allow himself to feel, for the first time in a long time, that he wasn't in control; that maybe his emotions were dictating his actions? In a split-second decision, he committed.
Gregory House wrapped his arms around Wilson and gave a hug.
The action almost immediately ceased the sobs from the younger doctor. This may have been the second time in the history of their long and enduring friendship that House willingly initiated any form of comforting contact toward Wilson, and it was not to be made a minor action.
"Jesus, House," Wilson wiped the tears from his eyes as his friend pulled away. Neither man was addressing the problem at hand, what had set off the night to begin with, but it seemed the two preferred it that way; at least for now. "I must've scared the shit out of you to be getting the royal treatment."
Typical Wilson, coming up with the worst possible thing to say for the moment, but House nodded his head anyway, turning his eyes away. "Not every day you realize you were minutes away from killing someone."
Wilson turned his head to the side. "And here was I, assuming that was part of your job description."
House shook his head once, a thoughtful gesture he reserved for moments of humility. "Not somebody you love." He turned quickly enough to miss Wilson's jaw fall open, disbelief written on every single pore of his face. "Get some rest," House ordered, and let the door slide shut behind him.