Author: Xander (Aeolian Angel)
Rating: PG-13 for language
Categories: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Slash, Slash
Spoilers: Around "Merry Little Christmas"
Warnings: Pre-Slash, Angst, Probable OOC-ness, Slightly AU
Summary: What would House say to Wilson if he didn't have to actually "say" it?
A/N: This is not a death story. (Also, no beta.)
It was late afternoon. The sun was just getting low enough that it shone through the blinds to Wilson's office, and a warmth radiated around his wooden desk and the small, bound leather book that laid on it. The oncologist had just returned from a monthly meeting with the other department heads. Although, truth be told, the only thing on his mind was House. His earlier visit with his best friend had left him shaken. House looked just as frail and sickly as he had looked that day they spoke before he stole Zebalusky's oxycodone. That image was permanently imprinted in Wilson's mind. He could still remember how angry he had been that House would let himself get in such shape and how badly he had wanted to wrap the older man up in his arms and take him away from all of his pain. He felt his stomach drop and cringed at the memory of having House practically beg him for metaclopamine--nausea medication. No, it wasn't begging really, but for House, it must've been just as hard. And Wilson had refused it. He closed his eyes tightly and gathered himself together before opening them again and giving a soft sigh. It was at this point that he caught sight of the lovely, red leather book sitting on his desk, and he wandered over, eying it curiously. He trailed a hand over the cover, his fingers tingling slightly as they ghosted over small lines and creases. For some reason, he felt drawn to it. It was when he flipped open the cover and his eyes scanned the chicken scratch on the inside that he realized why. House. A warmth flooded his being and a soft smile spread over his face as he scooped the book up and settled in a chair to read it.
January 06, 2007, 12:45 PM,
What a stupid concept. A "journal." When I was forced into rehab, nobody told me I'd have some wannabe doctor (therapist) making me keep some pointless record of "how I feel." Journals are for people with emotions anyway, right? And according to you, I have no emotions. How the hell is this supposed to be helping my drug addiction anyway? I don't need some sissy psychologist sitting there telling me that my emotions are the source of all my problems. Yeah, because my leg has nothing to do with it. Whatever. This is stupid.
Wilson sighed softly and leaned back in his chair, tilting his head up and staring woefully at the ceiling. He got the feeling he was not going to enjoy reading this at all, but House had left it here for a reason, right? Either he really wanted Wilson to know how he felt--to tell him things in writing that he could never say in person--or was just pissed off and wanted Wilson to feel bad. He was betting on the latter, but he wasn't about to stop reading.
January 07, 2007, 2:38 PM,
My idiot therapist seems to have brought it to my attention that I'm directly writing this to someone. She asked me who. Hah. Like I'd tell her. I told her I was writing it to my journal because it was my best friend. At least, I was half truthful. But she doesn't need to know who you are, because you know who you are. You. You sadomasochistic, controlling, overly-caring, manipulative, charming, handsome, torturous ass. And you say I'm difficult. You don't even care that I'm hurting. I haven't seen you in a good seven days, and if I confronted you about it, I'm sure you'd say you were "giving me space." Yeah, right. That's it I'm sure. Do you feel guilty? Is that why you're avoiding me? It better be. I hope you're drowning in guilt right now, you bastard.
Wilson clenched his teeth together, sighing through his nose and closing his eyes. He tried to tell himself that House was just hurting--just irritable from the pain. It wasn't working though. He was angry. How could that bastard say that Wilson didn't care?! They'd been through all this, and House was saying that Wilson didn't care! And wanting him to feel guilty no less! ...But he did feel guilty. That was probably the real reason he was angry. He didn't mean for it to be so long between visits. He just had so much on his hands... "House..." He sighed again, shaking his head and continuing to read.
January 08, 2007, 1:24 PM,
Well, now. My therapist is getting awfully interested in you. She's got some pretty crackpot ideas though. I'm mad at you because I miss you so much, and I want to know that you're thinking of me according to her. Yeah, that's it. I'm pining. Please, come visit me, or I might have to end it all in some tragic, clich "Romeo and Juliet" kind of way. Fuck you.
And, you know, it's not as if I wanted you here 24/7, but what the hell! You could've stopped by to see if the pain had done away with me by now! It's okay. Give it another day or two, and It will have. Then you won't have to worry about the burden that is me anymore. You can finally live happily knowing that whenever people see you, they think, "Oh, there goes the martyr that stuck by that awful, worthless cripple until the end. Gee, what a great guy." Yeah, "great." Right.
Wilson felt a twist in his heart. House really did miss him? He honestly had thought that he'd be the last person House would want to see... He felt like such an ass. And ... worthless? Surely House didn't see himself that way... He couldn't... The top diagnostician in most of the country (if not all of the country and--hell--maybe even the world), and he thought he was worthless?...
January 09, 2007, 3:24 PM,
What, you think you can just drop by today and make everything better?! A little small-talk, and you're forgiven?! Well, that's not how it works! I'm so sick of this shit! My stupid-ass therapist had a field day with my calling myself worthless in my last entry. But isn't that how everyone else sees me? So, what does it matter? I am fucking worthless!
Well, that answered his question. He was actually rather startled (and perhaps slightly annoyed) that he might think the same way as a psychologist, but that wasn't what mattered at the moment. What mattered was that he really needed to have a talk with House.
I think I'm actually angrier at you that you did come to see me! What's WRONG with you?! Why can't you just leave! I got over Stacy, remember? And then she came back, and I had to get over her all over again. Is that what you're gonna do? Just keep making me think you're leaving? Make me suffer over and over again? You know, the one difference between you two is that I hate her for betraying me, and I hate you because I can't hate you ... if that makes any sense. Whatever.
Wilson's eyes watered, and he blinked back tears as he gripped at the plush fabric of the chair's armrest. Surely... Surely House knew that he'd never leave... He must... After all this, if Wilson was going to leave, he would've done it by now. Really, as messed up as their relationship was, he'd never doubted that House cared. Had he really hurt his best friend so much that he did doubt it?
January something, 2007, sometime in the early morning,
Yeah, I have no idea what day or time it is. Everything is starting to blend together, and my stupid psychiatrist is getting to me. But not for long. You know, there are things I've always wanted to say to you. I like it when you take care of me. It means the world to me that you come over nights and cook my dinner and make sure I eat; that when you think I'm asleep, sometimes, you come in and pull the cover back around me when I kick them off; that you can always tell what I'm feeling--anger, sadness, happiness, bitterness--and you always know just how to act accordingly; and that after Stacy was gone, you were the only one I had left, and you were the only one I wanted to be left with. There was one last thing that I wanted to tell you. Something that I would've denied til death, and I guess I did.
Wilson's breath caught in his throat, and as he bolted upright, he could see the book drop from his lap and hit the floor in slow motion, the binding of it hitting first and the rest of it following as it landed open, pages fluttering in the wind he caused. Everything after that was a blur, he went looking in House's room, his office, all of his friend's usual haunts in the hospital, but he was nowhere to be found, and Wilson was beginning to feel a sense of hopeless dread washing over him. He had no way of getting home (or anywhere else for that matter), and if House hadn't been found by now, it was safe to say that he didn't want to be found. If that was the case, Wilson wasn't sure that even he could find the man. He was just about ready to give up and sink to the floor in a mess of tears when one more possibility hit him, and he ran to the elevator, hitting the button on it several times in a fit of anxiety before the doors finally closed, and the descent began. It reached the morgue just a little too slow for Wilson's liking, and he bolted out the doors, staggering backward at the sight he saw. There laid House, a pool of blood around his left wrist and an envelope in the other. Wilson was frozen for about five seconds, but to him, it felt like an eternity, standing there staring at his best friend in such a state, and when he finally broke out of his trance, he was at the other's side in a flash, paging Cuddy, Foreman, and Chase. (He did not need any possible hysterics from Cameron.) He glanced at the envelope in House's hand but didn't give it much thought, simply slipping into his back pocket before he slipped his lab coat off and wrapped it tightly around his best friend's wrist in an attempt to stop the bleeding. It wasn't until everything was finally somewhat settled down that the letter came to mind once again, and Wilson slipped it out of his pocket, reading the words on the front. "There was one last thing that I wanted to tell you." He held his breath and slowly opened the letter with trembling hands, closing his eyes momentarily in fear before reading it. "I'm sorry." And the words were so final--so much like a goodbye--that a heart-wrenching sob tore itself from Wilson's throat.
House stirred from his unconscious state at hearing the awful sound from Wilson, and he peered at the other curiously, sitting up halfway and frowning. He'd lost some blood, but honestly, it didn't seem like anything to get all panicky over. "Hush. You're giving me a headache," he said softly, the words laced with worry, and at hearing the familiar voice, all reason in Wilson's mind was banished. For that instant, all that mattered was that House was okay, and he shot up from his seat next to the bed, sitting down on the side of the mattress and wrapping his arms tightly around House's neck. "You stupid bastard!" he screamed, holding onto his friend tighter. "You stupid, selfish asshole! How COULD you?! How could you do something like that! I thought I was gonna lose you! My God, House!! If it hurt that bad, why didn't you just give up the fucking rehab?! Why would you try to leave me? Why ... would you..." Wilson broke down into another fit of tears and clenched his teeth together, glaring at House's shoulder where he'd laid his head down and closing his eyes. "Why?..."
House was taken aback. He rarely saw Wilson shed a tear, but to break down and sob like this? "J-Jimmy, I... Don't, uh... Don't cry... Please, I..." His voice was strained, and he wasn't sure how to deal with this. He had planned on Wilson's meeting lasting longer. When someone found him, he was supposed to be ... to be dead...
James sat up slightly and wiped the tears from his face, staring down at House with a mournful expression in his deep brown eyes. "You're such an idiot," he whispered, laying a hand against the older man's cheek.
"I know," House whispered, "I thought you didn't care..."
"I've always cared."