During that fiasco with Tritter, I had thought, for a few brief moments, that Wilson might actually care for me as much as I care for him. If it had been him in my position, I would have lied for him. I would have gone down swinging for him, even if I'd known he'd been completely and utterly guilty. And I had thought, for a few brief, blissfull days, that he might actually be willing to do the same for me. That he'd sacrifice as much for my huge blunders as I would for his.
But when he stood in my office, hands on his hips, and told me that he'd told Tritter he hadn't filled out those prescriptions… I felt as though he'd taken a sledgehammer to my chest, and shattered the few carefully-reconstructed pieces of my heart.
He said he'd gotten me a deal. A choice between being locked up for being insane and being locked up for being a dangerous criminal. Oh, he'd gotten a deal all right. He'd gotten himself a deal. He didn't have to make any more imposed sacrifices for me after making that deal with Tritter. I refused the deal because of Wilson. Not because I thought the deal was bad for me. It was good. But just the thought that Wilson had been willing to put my head on the chopping block to get his creature comforts back… I couldn't take it. I couldn't. It hurt too much.
And so Wilson my friend, my only friend, tried to force me to take the deal. Forced me to Detox from Vicodin. And as I lay in agony in my apartment, all I wanted was for Wilson to come knock on my door instead of Cuddy, instead of Cameron. Each time I heard the knock on the door I hoped it would be him. I wanted it to be him.
When he finally did show up, it was all over, it was too late. I lay on the floor after an self-botched attempt at an OD. I saw him, through a haze of painkillers, and all I wanted in that moment was for him to take care of me, like I'd always taken care of him when he got seriously drunk. And even if he didn't wipe off my face, help me onto the couch, I at least wanted him to stay. Wanted him to watch TV, or sleep or anything—so long as he was there.
But then I saw his face, his disgusted expression, and heard, felt, the pill container clatter near my head, after he'd thrown it at me. And I knew, in that instant, that I had never meant as much to him as he meant to me. I heard him walk away, heard him slam the door behind him, as I lay there, unable to do anything to stop him. Unable to call him back. Unable to apologize. Unable to do anything, not even sob, as I so desperately wanted to.
In the end, I went to rehab, like he wanted me to, even though it only made me more miserable. In the end, I apologized to him, for everything I'd done. And he forgave me.
But I want to know why I'm always the one who has to apologize. Always me. Never him. Never. Wonder-Boy Oncologists have no flaws, apparently…
Then there was Amber.
Oh. My. God. Amber.
Amber and Wilson. It was awful. Watching him date a person who was, essentially, me with tits. It was like knowing he wanted me—but not me, specifically, because he could get a better, improved, less damaged version. When I'd first found out… I'd wanted to throw up. Seriously. I felt ill. Because he'd dated, slept with, married other women. And each one of those had hurt. But with Amber… with Amber it was agony to watch.
Wilson just stood by and watched while I tried to fight for time with him, while I tried to outmanoeuvre myself. If he'd chosen her over me, it would have been awful, and I would have been alone. But it would have been definitive—an absolute decision that I could have gotten angry about. It would have been better than having him slowly slip through my fingers… better than being in limbo, caught between my desire to have him as mine and mine alone, and the need to simply have him in my life.
There was that syphilis prank that I'd had him promise not to tell anyone else about. I'd been stupid to believe him when he told me he'd keep silent. He told her. He had to have. There was no other way for her to find out.
I missed him. I missed our friendship. Because, unlike with Sam or Julie or any of the others, I'd still had a place in his life—they hadn't been able to replace me. But Amber was the female version of me. House 5.0: not crippled, not on drugs, not as great a jerk, but with the added bonuses of youth, beauty, and tits. He didn't need me when he had her. My place had been usurped—I wasn't needed, and I certainly wasn't wanted.
And it was killing me, but I don't think he ever even noticed.
That's why I went out and got drunk. To try and forget about him. Then the bartender had taken my keys, and I had no one else to turn to but him. I had no one else to turn to except someone who had practically forgotten I existed.
Then Amber was dying. And I could see the accusation in Wilson's eyes. Knew that he blamed me. I didn't want him to blame me, because it wasn't my fault, not really. It had all started when he'd started dating Amber. I hadn't killed her. He'd stopped being my friend, but I wouldn't have hurt him like that.
That's why I risked my life, my sanity, to save her. Not because I thought it would save her, but I thought it might just save the tattered remnants of what I had with Wilson. If I gave everything I possibly could, did everything I possibly could to try and save her, and she died, maybe he wouldn't blame me after.
So I did. And she did. But he did, anyway.
What I'd done hadn't mattered at all. All that I'd risked for him hadn't mattered.
Afterwards he avoided me, like the plague. He still interacted with Cuddy, Chase, Cameron, Kutner, Taub, Thirteen, Forman… everyone but me. He wanted me out of his life. And had it been anyone else, someone I didn't care about, I would have respected his wishes. I would have had nothing more to do with him either.
But how can you just let someone go, let someone ignore, let someone shut you out of their life, when they're all you have?
All I wanted was to see him leaning against my doorframe once more, hands on his hips. Or walk in and see him lounging in my chair. Or to be siting on my couch and hear a key in the lock and the front door open and know it was him, coming over for beer and pizza and monster trucks.
In the end, I apologized for killing her. After I hadn't really killed her. I apologized to him. Again. After he'd nearly destroyed me.
I could go on… about Cuddy, and Wilson's cancer…. But you get the picture…
Most people assume that I act like an ass because I am an ass.
Then again, most people are idiots.
Most people assume that I don't care about anyone else, that I don't respect anyone, trust anyone, or love anyone; they assume that I have no desire to care, respect, trust, or love either.
Bullshit. Utter and complete bullshit.
It's not that I don't care about others. But how long can you go on caring for people, when people never care about you. When everyone around you takes you for granted.
It's not that…
I've tried. God knows I've tried.
But I fell in love with Stacy. And she left.
I fell in love with Cuddy. And she chose Lucas over me. And then chose me over Lucas. And then left me.
Lucas I thought was a friend. Thirteen I thought was a friend. Alvie, even, I thought was a friend.
But, apart from Wilson, the only people who have officially stuck around are Chase and Forman. And that means absolutely zip, because Forman would be more worried about my job position than me if I got hit by a bus, and Chase laughs at my jokes and backs me up on my theories but would still put me at the very tale end of any of his party invite lists.
And Wilson. Oh, God, Wilson. My best friend. My only friend, if I'm honest with myself. Probably the one person in my life who matters most to me. I've tried to ignore this fact, but I can't. The person who matters most to me, the only friend I have is also the man who never listens to my advice, never respects my wishes. My best friend treats me like a burden, an ass, a reckless, irresponsible teenager. And I've lost track of the times that my best friend has chosen someone else, chosen himself, over me.
It's pathetic. I'm pathetic. I really am. Everyone assumes that Wilson's the doormat. Ha. Nothing could be further from the truth. Because he holds the trump card.
If he were to leave, if he were to finally get fed up with me and abandon this mutilated, twisted, screwed up relationship we call a friendship—he could walk away, abandon it, and be perfectly fine. He could move on. Find another friend. Find a lover. Find someone, multiple someones, to take my place. If he were to leave, that would be it. The end of the line. I have no one else. And short of going through the Witness Protection Program, there would be no way for me to start from scratch with someone new. If he left, that would be it. Societal lifeline severed.
Game over for Gregory House.
So I jump through his hoops. I drag myself through the various tricks they've arranged in the arena for me. I balk, I try to wiggle myself out from under their feet, but I can't. I can't ever manage to get myself out from under that virtual ax they all hold down against the back of my neck.
I don't take Vicodin for the high. I have never taken Vicodin for the high. I take Vicodin, I take more than I should, because the Vicodin dulls the pain. The more I take, the more numbness I feel. I'm not lying to anyone, not glossing things over when I say I only take the Vicodin for the pain. Because that is the only reason I take it.
I take it because it dulls the clenching agony that lives within my chest. This pain that so frequently cuts off my air supply, forces bile up into my throat. The drugs dull the pain enough for me to watch the people around me—Cameron and Chase, Forman and Thirteen, Wilson and Sam, Wilson and Amber, Cuddy and Lucas—it allows me to watch them smile at each other, kiss, hug, hold each other, without feeling an intense desire to throw up, or sob, or scream, or step out onto my balcony and launch myself over the edge.
It dulls the pain that comes when I wake up at 3 o'clock in the morning, secure in the knowledge that all I have to do is roll over to the other side of the bed to feel the warmth of another's skin. And then rolling over, to feel nothing but ice cold sheets, and opening my eyes. It dulls the pain that then comes with realizing that the memories I have of tender caresses, and sweet words, and loving smiles aren't memories at all—they're dreams, hallucinations. Figments of my imagination.
It dulls the pain that comes with knowing that such dreams are all I'll ever have.
It dulls the pain that comes with knowing I'm utterly and completely alone—that I'll die alone.
It dulls the pain that comes with knowing that if I lose any those few that I care about, I will be devastated, but that when I die, none of them will truly miss me. They all will breathe sighs of relief.
It dulls the pain that comes with knowing that no one cares what happens to me. No one cares at all.
Yes. I'll admit it. I'm possessive. I hold on to people, latch on them like a leech. I know I wind up looking selfish and controlling, and maybe I am. Maybe I'm selfish to want to hold on to the few fraying lifelines to human contact the world has thrown me. Maybe I am. Maybe I'm a selfish bastard.
But I'm so tired of always being afraid of losing the few people that have dared to get close to me. I'm so tired of always being terrified to be myself.
All I want is to find someone who respects me, trusts me, and cares for me. Someone I don't have to make respect me, or prove my trustworthiness to. I want someone who I know won't try to use me, someone who sees more to me than a crippled body and brilliant medical mind. All I want, all I've ever wanted, is to find someone I can respect, and care for, and trust, and love without having to fear that it will all disappear.
Because that's how my life has gone. Every good thing I have ever managed to get within my reach has eventually been stolen back from me; every good thing has crumbled, dissolved, or disintegrated and fallen through my desperately grasping fingers.
All I want is someone that I know will be…
I never thought that wanting to be loved was a lot to ask for from the world.
Apparently, I have never been more wrong.