Author: blackmare PM
It was a sneaky, rotten thing House did to Wilson, but he'll never apologize, because he isn't sorry at all. This is a short piece. Not slash. Spoilers for 3.22, Resignation.Rated: Fiction T - English - Drama - G. House - Words: 665 - Reviews: 18 - Favs: 12 - Follows: 1 - Published: 05-26-07 - Status: Complete - id: 3558796
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine, I make no money at this stuff, and O, how great is my woe.
Wilson's only half right, of course. It's a habit of his, being half right, and you generally prefer it when he's entirely wrong. No such luck this time.
He's correct when he says that you don't care. He's also completely mistaken -- so five out of ten for Wilson. There's no way you'll even try to explain about this. It would take too long, and he'd never believe you anyway, because you lied about dying of cancer and now he doesn't believe anything you say. Perhaps it's your own fault, but it is still his problem.
He had two chances today, after all. He could've told you the truth when you asked. He could also have taken the cup that you offered, trusted you, and he'd never have gotten that dose. But his guard was up against you and so you let his own suspicions wreck him, which was delightfully clever of you, really. You know you probably shouldn't have done it, though, and so you hesitate for a moment when he looks you in the eye and demands that you confess. Then he accuses you of trying to kill him, which is absurd. Although you have to wonder, just for a second, whether he really thinks you would.
A dead Jimmy Wilson is absolutely not what you want, but sometimes it seems you have to just about draw blood to get what you do want, which is this:
He's standing in your living room looking lost and defeated and small, trying to explain why his dark little secret wasn't really a secret, just because he wouldn't tell you. His hero's cape has been ripped away, his bulletproof shell is in a thousand sad pieces at his feet, and what's left is your friend. The real one, who's as alone and as frightened and broken as you ever were. This is your Wilson, who's been hiding from you, and while you're sorry it took a wrecking ball to find him, you aren't the least bit sorry that you did it.
And he's only half right, because you don't care, and then again you do. Not that he's depressed and pathetic; everyone is, when you get right down to it, and there's not a damn thing you can do for him there. But you care about the fact that he's been faking it, faking it to you, pretending he's got the clues that you are lacking.
What else you care about is that he can't do what he thinks he can do, standing in his make-believe ivory tower and yelling for you to come on up. As if he didn't know that you were crippled. As if he's too good to climb down from there, admit that he walks the same muddy ground as you, and let you lean on him.
Those imaginary stairs of his would never hold your weight, anyway. They won't even hold his , and he's going to fall, sooner or later. The whole thing will give out, all the pretense collapsing in one inevitable, sickening rush. You have far too good an imagination. You know how it's likely to look, and you know that you won't be able to stop the destruction once it begins.
So you're stopping it now, taking him down by whatever means you can. It's his own fault if he gets bruised and hurt and mad at you for that. He'll get over it; he always does. And no matter what he thinks, no matter how he accuses you, this is not attempted murder. It's suicide prevention, and you will do it as many times as it takes.