Don't Worry Your Pretty Little Heart
Chapter 4
Resumed and resigned to his position within the visitor's chair, House glared loathingly at his best friend nearly turned cabbage. Or brussels sprout. Or broccoli. But definitely near next vegetative state guy.
The glare hadn't left his blue eyes and didn't seem capable of lifting any time soon, as Wilson had remained unconscious for longer than the last time. If anything, House was sure his glare had only intensified from hour one into hour two.
Sigh he did as he released a long held in breath as Wilson started to come to.
As if wanting to prove or disprove House's theories of turning vegetable, brown eyes slowly parted and found his easily. He lazily glanced around the room before a hand came up to smooth the lines on his face.
Except, well, Wilson had intended to do so but couldn't as his hand was stuck by his bedside.
He pulled again, tentatively, then realized what was holding it in place. He grumbled in an unknown emotion, "House. Seriously?"
House flashed a grim yet wicked smile. Maybe it was a bit excessive, as Cuddy had given him that strange look at his idea before rolling her eyes and, somewhat surprisingly, allowing it.
"Don't ever be an idiot like that again," House threatened, resting back in his chair (when all he wanted to do was move forwards), "and I wouldn't have to restrain you to your bed."
"House," Wilson breathed pitifully, and House felt himself break apart slightly. "What, uh, what happened again?" Wilson eyed him for a moment before he averted his gaze. Meaning, he knew but didn't want to admit his part. Or that he didn't remember. Or he was hoping House did and could berate and bully him about being a colossal idiot. Or it was a new symptom.
As House reached for his penlight, he recognized it could be any one of these reasons that all boded unwell for all involved.
"What do you remember?" he posed instead, splaying his fingers over Wilson's head and shining a light into his brown orbs.
When his pupils reacted appropriately, House breathed out slowly in relief.
Wilson blinked in response as he hesitated, but hesitation breached into silence and House felt his chest clench.
"Wilson?" He leaned back, clicking off the light. He studied his best friend seriously, glare shifting to worry that shined in his blue eyes. Softly, but not soft enough to be unheard, he asked, "Wilson, do you know what day it is?"
Wilson's face scrunched up in confusion. Averted gaze, he answered, "Uh, it's Tuesday?"
"Don't sound so reassuring," he commented sarcastically. He placed his fingers between Wilson's restrained hands. "Squeeze my fingers."
Wilson did so with good dexterity.
As House moved to his feet, asking him to fulfill his tests, he came back to his seat with a little more peace. "Looks like we won't have to have Foreman treat you more extensively. Your stupidity, though, won't show up on tests." He sighed. "Are you actually going to listen to me this time and not try and leave early against medical advice?" House wracked a calloused hand down his own face, Wilson pointedly staring as he did so in a fit of barely concealed jealousy at the freedom encircling House's movement.
"How bad this time?" he asked in a small voice and if the jolt of emotion landed in the diagnostician's lap, he tried not to think too much of it.
He could see more clearly now: Wilson remembered, to his own point of consciousness that allowed it, and the oncologist was warring between shame and outright fear.
House swallowed thickly. He sighed, a little too loudly, crossed his arms again and stated in a much too controlled cadence, "You had…" he paused, limbs lowering to loosened fists in his lap. "You went into sudden cardiac arrest." House, while internally he wanted to scream, shout, and cry, forced his blue eyes to meet the gaze of those brown, see the emotions shift like ocean tides and have no way of changing the weather storm that lurked within.
Was this what Wilson felt every time House self-sabotages? Every time he self-destructed?
…Was the strain of their relationship now manifesting into physical health struggles?
At what point did the psychological traverse the physical?
At no point closer to solving this mystery, House observed Wilson to lick his lips, frown and say, "Okay."
When House thought that was all he was going to get out of his best friend turned patient, Wilson continued, "Maybe I was a little hasty in my discharge." His frown deepened; a soft twinge of his eyes meant to inject humor where there was none to be had.
House nodded. Once, then twice.
It was as good as they were going to get.
"Okay." House whispered back. "You're still not getting your hands back." He crooned and waggled his brows. "I've gotta have some power over you."
He shifted in his chair, getting up with a strain and he waved to someone in the hallway.
A sheepish and concerned Doctor Chase scooted in an echocardiogram machine and brought it straight to Wilson's bedside. The Aussie grimaced a doubtful smile, eyed the restraints, questioned mutely in a look at House then promptly left the room again.
House scooted the visitor's chair closer to Wilson's bedside by hooking his cane under one leg and having the damn thing screech its way closer.
"This'll be easier if I do it." He stated matter of factly but Wilson smiled despite himself, knowing this was the equivalency of House marking Wilson down as his territory and not trusting anyone else to take better care of Wilson than House, himself, could. It was almost… territorial.
Wilson would be lying if he said his heart didn't soar in the same way that anxious, chosen butterflies flew in his stomach.
He'd never say it to House, not so directly, at least, but he was also almost sure that he would never have to.
He and House were practically made for each other.
No one else had the same charm, the same wit, the same stalkerish need that House both craved and felt called upon to figure out and solve the puzzle.
None of his ex-wives and their failed relationships could compare to the way that House and Wilson just worked.
They thrived and strived together.
Like two peas destined to always be in the same pod.
Sure, Wilson would try and get away, he'd try to Do the Right Things, he'd tried to leave and not come back, but as he said before, they were a couple. Well, a couple of straight men but exemplifying the metaphor all the same.
They kept coming back to each other.
Where one ended, the other began.
Like stars encircling a planet that just felt so much like home.
House and Wilson.
Wilson and House.
They craved one another like Wilson was House's external, personified morphine.
They just worked. Somehow. Despite it all; despite everything.
They could go and watch cripple's get their eyes cut out or gossip about the black-haired female nurse House mentioned as the one with the mustache earlier (Wilson knew the one). The nurses that had the best asses (or assets) or how House was trying to skirt and court Cuddy on a good day.
And, sometimes, they didn't have to say anything at all.
Wilson would find himself craving the delightful and quiet silences he and House could share and sit in amicably—without needing to change it or morph it into something others would determine as 'more comfortable.'
House could simply give him a certain emotionally charged look and Wilson could identify and understand more than anything House could have said instead.
This easy baring of their souls was so special and so delightful, that no matter how hard he'd tried to find it in his wives, he always came up short.
If House were a woman, separate of course than Amber, Wilson knew he'd be in love.
But his straight sexual orientation meant he could never bathe in the scent of House, roll kisses down his rugged jawline and most certainly never confess romantic feelings, hope House felt the same, and—well, what? The two men would venture off on motorcycles into the sunset?
Wilson would have laughed if doing so right now wouldn't be so suspicious (to which House would naturally strive to solve).
But none of these wishes or dreams or fantasies could ever take place because the facts were: Wilson was straight, House was straight, House and Cuddy were romantically involved and since House had never claimed to look at men in the way a gay man might (despite how often those around them or observant of them always summed them up as lovers) that meant there was absolutely no way House and Wilson could ever be "more than best male friends."
You just don't fall in love with your best friend and live to not regret it, James.
If… if James suspended his belief in how straight he was, he'd come to discover that any pursuit into a romantic relationship with House (barring that House would even want that too) would irreparably damage their relationship, if they didn't work out. That loss of something so grand and so special would be severed and was that risk of receiving or ending up with nothing really worth it?
House would never survive being without Wilson.
As much as it gutted the younger doctor, and as much of a compliment it was that he meant so much to House, that level of responsibility on Wilson's shoulders was present if not soul-crushing when he recognized Life could so easily and unfavorably take him out of The Living Game whenever it wanted to, just for fun, and just because.
Wilson wouldn't admit it to House, but it's the biggest reason he had to propel himself forwards with good, if not decent, health care and being good to himself. He worked on eating right, though more exercise could certainly help him out more, he didn't have road rage even when driving in Princeton, he took his antidepressants, he did The Right Things.
But life, death and adversity wouldn't care if Wilson wasn't ready to die yet. It wouldn't care if Wilson still had things to do, people to meet, places to visit, best friends to fall in love with. It would work to take him out by an irate cancer patient, a school bus, him breaking both of his legs or a random, sudden, deep brewing heart condition.
Life didn't give guarantees other than that one's time on Earth was limited and Death could probably come at any second and would definitely come at some point and all things would then cease to exist for that one, solitary individual.
Maybe near-death episodes made Wilson realize the magnitude of his current situation and how terrifying it'd be to leave before he, or House, were ready.
Brown, inquisitive eyes gazed over at House now as the diagnostician warned about the cool nature of the gel that he squeezed onto Wilson's bare chest.
If… if for a moment, if Wilson could try and believe that he was…. Bisexual, or hell, even just questioning his straightness for a second, would House feel the same way?
Or would Wilson be drowning in unrequited love?
What if, what if they did love and what if they did work and what if they could be more?
Was the chance of something more worth risking a little bit of pain?
Wasn't that always the price of love?
Pain.
The inevitable, drawing, lasting pain that comes to Life with loss. Because if Wilson wasn't forever, it meant that House wasn't either.
And everyone within a mile's radius of House knew he was miserable, living in chronic pain day by day and that he has tried countless times in varying ways to not be here anymore.
Would Wilson be enough? Would Wilson and this purely hypothetical ponderings of two bisexual men who just so happened to be best dysfunctional friends be enough to convince House to stay on a planet he's fought so hard to leave? To desert?
Why did it matter?
Wilson blinked, eyes searching House's face for some clue the oncologist needed to solve this time.
If life was indeed so finite, why did it matter if he told House how he really feels today or tomorrow or next week?
Would it be cruel? Well, only if House didn't feel the same way. Wilson's eyes combed their way down to House's hands, rough at the palms yet so gentle.
He held the wand stiffly and Wilson's eyes narrowed, recognizing this striking grip was to hide the way House's hands were lightly shaking.
Wilson's frown deepened again, and he met House's gaze, blue eyes studying brown as Wilson felt his breath depart—he knew.
He knew.
He was so secretly gay for his best friend Doctor Gregory House.
How he'd managed to lie, pretend and escape this truth for the better part of two decades would remain a mystery. He just knew for certain now that he didn't want to waste another second, let alone another two decades (if they had that time together, after all) denying his love for his best friend.
While his confession of leaking his love was on his lips, he breathed out, held in the thought and dropped his line of sight.
Maybe he could profess his love after the test.
Or, in a better situation than the doctor-patient relationship.
Once he and House were alone again.
When breaking up House's current romantic pursuits with Lisa Cuddy wouldn't sting so badly of betrayal.
Wilson bit his lip hard and sighed.
He could wait a little longer.
For now, he could dream and imagine a life greater and beyond than him slowly, randomly dying because Life, too, is an ass.
Wilson picked up his gaze from staring at his wrist restraints to the monitor that House was puttering on about beneath his breath.
"…Valves are fine… good blood flow…." House squinted and couldn't stop himself from looking disappointed as he motioned to the monitor, briefly, stating, "Structurally your heart's fine."
"Don't sound so disappointed," Wilson remarked back, and House's lips upturned with a sheepish chuckle. "It's confusing to the patient," he continued dryly.
"It just means we're no closer to an answer." House admonished, setting the probe back into its clutches. "Fear not, Wilson! But one test of many more to come."
Wilson rolled his eyes. "Oh, what joy."
House stared at him deeply until Wilson looked back up at him. When their eyes met, House said sincerely, "We'll figure this out."
Wilson forced a smile.
"Yeah."
At what cost?
At what point is it appropriate to confess your love for your best friend when they're still in a romantic relationship of their own that is decidedly not with you?
Wilson leaned back in his hospital pillows.
He wasn't sure.
He just knew he couldn't wait for forever anymore.
Not when so much that was certain no longer was.
"I'm tired," he muttered, which was only half-true.
"Get some rest," House replied softly. "I'll be here."
If comfort and love didn't exist within that crucial statement, then it was a romance Wilson would never want to know, anyways.
It was true: House's glare had softened incredibly after James had regained consciousness and appeared somewhat back to normal.
Not completely, there was some part of him remaining quiet and aloof, but he was himself, more or less, and that had allowed House to feel like he could breathe again.
When Wilson mentioned still feeling tired, House understood as a friend as much as a doctor. It had been such an ordeal, and although Wilson had gotten the ability to be unconscious and unaware for most of it, House had not been favored so kindly.
He scrubbed his hands down the sides of his face, letting loose an exasperated exhale.
How had things gotten so fucked up in so little time?
House had never considered, never dared to once amuse his catastrophizing thoughts that anything bad, cruel or unjust could happen to Wilson. To now be confronted and assaulted by Life of his best friend's mortality and fragility was too daunting, miserable and soul sucking of a task.
He stared at Wilson, watching his friend's even breathing at the same time he knew he needed to have a talk with Cuddy.
He could already feel the tension in their romance with House camping out in Wilson's room and he had to admit he really didn't have the energy, the will or the drive to face difficult conversations with the woman he was sleeping with when it felt like his entire world was crumbling down around him.
Wilson was an idiot.
But so was House.
And the two of them together made for a recipe of pure disaster, pure chaos, pure antics.
House loved Wilson, in the way that he'd over-involve himself in Wilson's relationships, his consults, his career, their friendship, Wilson's charred family life. In the way that he'd steal Wilson's lunch, steal his credit card and, way back when, steal his prescription pads.
House knew, he had to, that Wilson cared deeply back for House. If he didn't, he'd never have made it this far for so long as friends with House.
Wilson was always there. It was something House could always count on. Wilson was House's rock, even when he was actively trying to chuck Wilson out into the ocean to sink, regardless, Wilson kept coming back, no matter how many gloves, death stares, verbal threats and general up-to-no-goodness House unleashed onto his friend.
Wilson was so deeply ingrained in House's life; he'd become like a tattoo. Marking him. Tending to him, bringing color and design to House's life that wouldn't ordinarily be there.
And Wilson was there.
Always.
Except now his very existence was being threatened by something internally wrong with him that House was responsible for figuring out in time or he'd lose Wilson forever.
But, you know, no pressure.
He groaned. If this is what Cuddy said she wanted to talk about in her office over text today he really, really didn't want to.
Just the notion of facing all of his fears, his thoughts, his emotions—sounded far too exhausting.
What House would give for another break, a chance to fall into the chasm of unconsciousness like Wilson, not having to deal with reality for another moment longer.
…. But he owed it to Wilson to give it his all.
It was a promise he wouldn't back down from.
It wasn't every day that his rock needed him as desperately as he needed his rock. For Wilson, he could do that.
For Wilson, he could be there.
Because there was no way in hell he could ever dare dream of never doing so for the friend who'd done everything for him before and would probably continue to as a ghostly figure left on Earth with unfinished business (not that House believed in that crap anyways).
For now, it'll do.
He got up from his chair, before anyone could see, he brushed the back of his fingers across Wilson's cheek and hobbled out of the room so fast, he was certain a chemtrail followed behind him.
Time to go have conversations he really dreaded having.
But he would. For Wilson.
Anything; for Wilson.
While House did burst through Cuddy's office door with the same push and purpose as before, his face reflected poorly controlled emotions and a pensive, lack luster attitude he was trying hard, and failing, to suppress.
She studied him for a moment, eyes narrowed, then set aside her pen and stack of papers. She sighed dreamily, hands nestling underneath her chin.
"Do you know why I called you in here?"
"Texted." House clarified then in a layer of disgust, "But I have a Spidey feeling." He thumped his cane. "What do you need?"
She sighed again but in far more exasperation.
Seriously she said, "I need you to do your actual job."
House's features scrunched up easily. "I am doing my job."
Cuddy squinted then shook her head. "Wilson is not your patient. Your actual patient—"
"Wilson," House interrupted, tone scathing, "—would be dead without me. Because he would have left AMA, made it into the parking lot and died right there." More quietly, he murmured, "Except, he would have stayed dead." His gaze fell, darkening. "He's an idiot. But as his doctor, I know I'll figure out what's wrong. He—"
This time, Cuddy interjected. "Wilson has plenty of other respectable doctors that can work on his case. You can take your hands off and attend to your actually dying patient that your team is trying to save."
"If they can't do it without me, it's more of a reflection on them than me." House advised.
Cuddy rolled her eyes.
"It would still be a reflection on you because you've hired and trained them."
"Well, if they still can't do it without me," House fluttered his hand multiple times.
Cuddy sighed. "I need you tonight."
House deadpanned, "Did Chase come crawling to his Mommy to get taken care of?"
She looked at him, hardened as though she'd become a statue. "Rachel needs her bedtime routine, or she'll fall into peril. I can't because I'll be here late. If you could instead…" she trailed off, a small pleading escaping into her voice.
As if on cue, House shrugged noncommittally, "Can't. I have to stay here tonight."
Jealousy or rage sparked into her eyes. "Because of Wilson."
It wasn't really a question.
"He needs me," House stated quietly.
"And I don't?" she implored.
"You're not dying," he said, adding hastily, "at least not right now. Unless you decide to walk in front of a bus from the outcome of this conversation, but…" he shrugged, both hands clasping the head of his cane as he leaned on it heavily.
She observed him for a long moment.
Silence befell the room, not without an air of awkwardness.
"Does he know?" she questioned.
House blinked.
She smiled ruefully. "You should tell him."
House appeared immediately suspicious. "Tell him what?"
She pursed her lips. "Tell yourself first." She looked at him with an emotion he couldn't decipher, his anger sparking deep within his soul. He liked knowing things, priding himself on it. But she knew something here that he didn't and wouldn't tell him and that was frustrating.
"Tell yourself and when you're ready, tell him, too."
His eyebrows furrowed.
"Whenever you can next, collect your things."
Confusion further flitted across House's face. "From where?"
Cuddy looked at him sadly, adjusting her position. "From my place. It doesn't have to be today, but, when you can. When you can find the time."
House's face fell, his skin paling.
"Wait-wait. No. You're breaking—" his voice caught in his throat like instead of taking in air, he was taking on water. Like he was free falling off a cliff jump into the depths of the Pacific Ocean. "Lisa—" he cut himself off because his world couldn't be collapsing any further.
"This is not a punishment," her voice sounded so far away. Like he truly was underwater now and couldn't tell fact from fiction.
"You're, you're ending our relationship because I won't—" his own voice was small, disbelieving, uncertain.
"I'm letting you go so you can live in your truth." Her watery face smiled sadly. It was like House was falling to the bottom of the sea, tunnel vision making the water's surface fade, wrinkle and shorten. "Lisa—I can't—"
I can't lose you, too.
It's what he meant to say.
He wobbled on his feet, his legs like Jell-O, of course because he was drowning out at sea.
Her hands were quickly by his side, steadying him, anchoring—but no, helping him back up, like a life jacket, where he could bob on the surface again.
"You're not losing me," she cooed, and her face became clearer, steadier, stable. "I'll still be here, just not as… not as your girlfriend. It doesn't have to happen right away. You can take your time, figure things out with Wilson, but I need to let you go so you can be okay." Her eyes took on a sadness so grand, yet there was some ounce of peace there, too. "He'll be here, where I couldn't. It's time you let yourself feel that, too. Let yourself be in that."
It felt wrong to feel so alone in a parting relationship.
If House didn't have Wilson, if he no longer had Cuddy, then who or what was left for him—if anything at all?
He couldn't see what she did, and it made him feel small, lackluster, gone.
And maybe a breakup was to end where something new could grow.
But for the moment, it was pain. Painful.
And it would be, for some time.
Because now he felt cast out on an island with no occupants in sight. Alone. Terrified. Unseen.
And that made it all the worse.
Yet maybe… maybe it would pave the way to healing.
To love again, even if pain may come. Because what is Life without loss? What if we're meant for this planet longer than the finite sands that fall from our lone hourglass in the hands of a buyer? What if instead of going life alone, we found others to make the time pass by a little quicker? A little more meaningfully?
Was love, in this way, not just a gift for all to see come to exist?
Maybe that was worth the fight.
Maybe through loss, we find our strength.
Through our pain we can forge our purpose.
But sleep beckoned to House now. Sweet, blissful, dreamless sleep. Just, just not here. Not with her. Because for now, she was the Enemy, the Precursor, the One Who Brought Pain.
So away he'd slink, with his compass and the beacons of light clawing their way out through the storm, a lighthouse keeper shining it bright, bearing the responsibility of guiding home lost ships.
Because maybe in our pain, in our experiences, in our isolation, we still find hope. We still find lives worth living and love to be had. We still are connected, not separated, as a human mind may come to believe.
But connected.
Together.
And House knew what uncomfortable chair he so desperately sought.
He wouldn't be able to tell Wilson for a while. About the breakup. That, that maybe Wilson was the catalyst behind, but everybody lies, and he would tell him soon. Admit to him.
Once he knew what he was telling.
And maybe the ocean waves would quell, and the tide would sweep away the sandcastles, bringing forth new beings, new creatures, still finding, still searching, still becoming more.
Because while the ocean has its secrets, so, too, does it have its answers.
He'd snaked through his office, ignoring the disheveled appearance of his team, their heads bowed down over a pile of textbooks, barely even registering him swoop through to his office side. He frowned slightly, a twinge of something akin to loss at his side, so, naturally, he eyed the whiteboard and before thinking further on it, he took a picture of it on his phone, placed the device back into his pocket and grabbed the material at his desk.
Without meaning to, he looked back at the whiteboard.
Puzzles to solve beckoned him.
It was the only other thing he could always count on.
Quietly, he crossed the room, picked up the black marker and wrote down some possible answers, circled other symptoms then turned on his heel. In his periphery, he saw only Taub sat aghast on his quiet arrival and just as sudden disappearance. He gave the man a shrug and offending smile and continued on his exit out of the room.
House watched from the clear doorway Wilson resting. He hadn't made a move into his patient room yet, preferring to just see. Observe. Contemplate.
Wilson was probably snoring lightly. His wrists were still restrained to his bed, limiting his movement, though he'd found, eventually, a decent comfortable position to rest in.
His chest rose, paused, and fell again.
Normal breathing.
The heart monitor further noted that a steady rhythm was back, locked behind his ribcage.
House opened the door and stepped inside Wilson's room.
He quietly rested his books, Gameboy and stack of miscellaneous papers on the chair next to the one he'd be sitting in.
He flipped open the textbook, rested his legs carefully on Wilson's bedside and proceeded to read.
Or, more realistically, appeared like he was reading, when really he was watching Wilson over the pair of his reading glasses resting at the end of his nose.
He wasn't sure what he was feeling, if it was even anything at all.
He just hadn't expected to feel this alone again. Not with everything that had happened, that was still happening, that had yet to happen.
He let out a soft breath of warm air.
Watching Wilson made his heart beat fast. Not uncomfortably and not concerningly. The thought of those brown eyes looking back at him made his chest ache, longing to see the understanding and wonder, and hell, worry that often illuminated their holders.
Wilson.
The only true human constant in his life.
No matter what happened, Wilson was there.
He'd always been.
For the last twenty years, give or take.
He'd always be.
He was meant to.
House wouldn't give up on him so easily.
Aging in his thoughts, he leaned forward and placed a hand into Wilson's, feeling his warm skin, alive and real.
What a future they had together.
What a future they could have, would get to have, because there is no way in hell House is going to let go of Wilson now. Not this time. Not when it mattered most.
Tears pricked House's eyes and he couldn't help it.
The weight of what had happened seemed to hit him all now, all at once. Like a dump truck.
He'd almost entirely, completely and forever lost Wilson to the very end of life and it made him feel breathless, gutted, consumed by an emotional darkness and terror that he never knew before that he could experience. That he would ever volunteer or ask to experience.
But this was Wilson.
He'd do anything for Wilson.
If… if loving Wilson would be enough, he'd bend him backwards and kiss him all over, just for his best friend to be okay again, not ripped from House's hands when he was just beginning to realize how much he meant to the older man. How very needed he was. How vital he was to House's life. How he made all things worth it.
In this hectic, crazy life. When House was being crazy—Wilson would ground him. Remind him. Be his conscience. Like the sun rising in the sky, Wilson would be there.
Before this, it could never be conceived that there would come a time where Wilson just wouldn't. It was a false reality, a nightmare that House had never considered, despite his line of work.
Now that he knew, he never wanted to be reminded of it again. Oh, how he wished he could slink back into the shadows of blissful ignorance, blissful lack of awareness.
He didn't wipe the tears from his cheeks, because he didn't think he could ever collect them all.
They slid and slid down his face without the capability of stopping. God, how he hated his emotions—or, more, bluntly, actually feeling them. It was so much easier, so much more natural for him to hide away, mask the pain, take drugs, medicate, run away, avoid—but the problem with avoidance is that it doesn't make the original problem go away. It may mask it for a time, put a towel over it, but with more avoidance, the original problem merely grows and grows and grows, becoming all-encompassing, more overwhelming and eventually leaking into all other parts of a person's life, until their world becomes too small and they reach a point where they have to face the feelings, have to face the thoughts and either overcome them or continue to sift, fester and push away.
But you can't push it away or avoid forever.
At some point, there's something that gives way.
As some person once said: At some point the pain of not doing it becomes greater than the pain of doing it.
So, House let himself feel this.
He opened himself up to feeling what this was: pain.
Pain without borders, pain without deflection, pain without walls.
Pain in its most simple, rawest of forms.
He didn't like it.
Not one bit.
But he tolerated it.
He recognized this as 'later' and in this later, he could feel his feelings with his best friend still alive (even if his relationship status with Cuddy was now at zero), he still felt it all.
It was an ugly cry.
Bawling, sobbing, really.
He was glad no one was around to witness it.
He muttered things, not realizing it.
Things about not wanting to be alone.
Cathartic things.
Things he could only tell Wilson.
…. House just didn't want to be alone.
So, when the hiccups came and the tear stains dried, he bowed his own head, leaning into his grasp on Wilson and just when he thought he was going to lose it all again—
—there was a warm grasp of pressure around his fingers.
The other hand he clutched spoke, and it said everything he needed to hear:
You are not alone. I am here.
A/N: Well, WOW, WHAT a chapter! First off, happy Pride month! Here's some lovely, intense and wonderful Hilson vibes.
Second, if anyone else feels that Cuddy and House's breakup is too soon, too quick, I totally agree with you but, what can I say? The Hilson feels came and they launched and I was obeying the Muse. This story overall has had so many different twists and turns, none of which I've expected starting a new chapter and I'm living for it hahaha. This chapter update is coming just one month after the last one and that's SO exciting. I hit major writer's block when I pigeonholed myself in the plot hole two pages in, but then something made me sad, and I wrote 7 pages after that. And then the next day I wrote another 7 pages and then it was just lots of writing in between working my job haha
Alsoooo, the breakup part here was so, so, SO healing for me. I feel like I've let out a catharsis I didn't realize I so desperately needed after a rough breakup I had in real life a couple years back. I think I worked through a lot of that in writing this chapter and that's so healing, giving love another shot and finding someone in the future… that's just so awesome.
Life is both pain and loss; as well as love, growth and joy.
Maybe, if you don't want it to be, you don't have to journey it alone.
So, I hope you can enjoy this story update. Fall in love, dare to dream, hold onto hope.
There is so much more to come.
I'd love to hear your thoughts in any comments! Definitely a chapter I'll be gushing about on my other socials in the near future haha
Yay Hilson! 💚
Written: 5.28.2024, 6.6, 6.17, 6.18, 6.20.2024
Typed: 6.18 & 6.22.2024
Edited: 6.17, 6.18, 6.22.2024
Music that helped to write this chapter:
"That Part" by Lauren Spencer Smith; "11 Blocks" by Wrabel