Title: Ten Months
Spoilers: Through S7E14.
Warning: Major character death. Psychiatric illness. Dark. Black. Darker than that.
Rating: NC-17 (M)
Pairing: House/Cuddy. Notice: the fic is not Huddy friendly.
Disclaimer: don't own anything, except my roaring anger at TPTB.
Summary: Fic starts at the end of S7E12. Third person. Eleven Months. Each Month is either POV Wilson or POV House.
Author's note: My very warped response to the While You Were Sleeping Challenge on sick_wilson.
I took a sentence I liked and used it as challenge: "one character falls into a coma, and wakes up to a very different reality".
More importantly, this is my reaction to what's going on in the show recently, plus the aftershock of alternatealto's A Taste of Victory on lj.
This is just my anger speaking: I didn't want a beta reader to face that.
At first he couldn't believe it. After weeks of ignoring him, House had just given him ten days to "get back into it". By which he meant, surely, "Get another girlfriend so I don't need to feel guilty for forgetting you exist."
Now, lying in his bed, the soft, comforting purr of Sarah on his chest, he thought he had misunderstood. House just wanted him happy. And what would be wrong with that? That seemed a worthy goal.
But ten days? How much change can happen in ten days? And a big change it would have to be, because since Sam had left, he was deeply unhappy. Actually much longer, although the precise moment vaguely escaped from his mind.
When was the last happiness he could remember? Certainly the well-hidden one when House had given his talk at the conference... he had saved his career that day. And when they got the condo... and of course, the look on House's eyes after seeing the organ. That, that had been happiness.
Happiness was probably too much to expect, especially since there was so little House left for him. He wished briefly he could come to an agreement with Cuddy, like House had done with Amber. But he knew this was impossible.
No, the plan was clear: ending unhappiness in a reasonable, realistic time. Not ten days, but ten months.
Any hopes he could have had about House caring for him were gone. All he talked to him about was Cuddy. Even the "ten days challenge" had gone forgotten. The whole of him had gone forgotten, the fact that he had a life and needs and dreams. And pain.
Except he could still be useful. Cuddy had used him to tell House to go to the ceremony. House had used him to check that Cuddy really liked having a mariachi band, then again to be reassured that he was still a good doctor, despite having killed a patient by auditioning mariachi bands instead of concentrating on the symptoms.
It's not like House disliked him now. He was just... not interested. He didn't seem to be happy with Cuddy, but maybe he was. Maybe he had changed.
He thought back of his divorces. Of Amber's death. Of how painful it had been to have "the end" officially written on each relationship, either by a judge's signature or by a slab of stone.
He now realized that such a clear cut had some advantage, as far as the pain went. Too bad there were no such landmarks for friendships. Still, the time had come for him to take care of himself. First of all physically. His fortieth birthday had come and gone, and it was time to take some effort to get back in shape.