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What Friends Are For
by Adrienne S.
House frequently experienced times when everything suddenly comes
into focus and the whole picture is crystal clear. This time, it
was the sound of the empty pill container hitting the floor.
Wilson had finally reached his limit; the limit that House had
thought for years was purely theoretical and possibly mythical.
He heard the door clicking shut - no melodramatic slamming, not
this time. The sound was horribly final.
House lay there for a few minutes more, deciding. He could stay
where he was, on the floor in his own vomit, knowing that this
time there would be helping hand, or he could get up off his ass
and help himself.
It astonished him and shamed him that Wilson would just walk
away. Wilson was a born healer; if puzzles were his one thing,
compassion was Wilson's. To have Wilson just walk away from
someone in his condition - anyone, even a pathetic mess like him
- meant that he had finally pushed too far.
With a wince, he slowly started to move, getting one hand under
himself. It took several tries, but he managed to get himself
upright. The coffee table and the couch provided the extra
support he needed to stay that way until the dizziness passed
enough to let him regain some balance.
His leg wasn't hurting that much. He still had enough drugs in
his system to take care of the leg pain, but the acid in his
throat burned.
He had to pull himself together. He had to sober up and make
himself think. Stubborn refusal to deal with the situation
hadn't worked and without the unquestioning and unquestioned
support of Wilson, he had to find a solution to this.
He made his way to the bathroom with slow and painful steps,
stubbornly refusing to give up when all he wanted to do was lay
down and die.
No. That decision had to be made while lucid, not lurching
around in a haze of drugs and pain.
He made it to the shower and just let the water pour over him for
a long, long time. As his head started to clear, he thought
about what he was going to do. The deal was out of the question;
Tritter would win. Formal rehab was out, too. He honestly
didn't think it would help him in the slightest.
Rehab worked for most people, but he wasn't most people. He had
a real life, with a well paying, respectable job and genuine
responsibilities. He had nothing in common with the general type
who went into rehab; he didn't need life management skills and he
didn't get into the drugs for the thrill of being one of the
beautiful people. His pain was real, dammit, and he knew exactly
what the drugs did from a medical standpoint. Yes, he was
addicted, but he functioned. Or he did, up until Wilson, with
the connivance of Cuddy, tried to take away his pills.
And let's not forget Tritter. A cop with a grudge and enough
power to make his life miserable. No, dammit, he could not let
Tritter win.
________________________
Wilson let himself out. He had to get out before the impulse to
kick the crap out of house with his nice, French shoes overcame
him. It went against everything he believed in to walk away. As
a doctor, he knew that House needed help. As a friend, it
twisted his heart to see the man he loved lying there in a drug
addled haze. Yet the rage was so strong that he could not stay,
could not offer to help, could not do anything but get out.
He was intending to get into his car and drive away, leaving
House in the mess, physical and metaphorical, that he had created
for himself, but he couldn't do that, either.
So he stayed in the hall, unable to help, but unable to leave,
either.
He wasn't sure how long he stayed there, straining to hear any
sounds from the door in front of him. He eventually heard
movement on the other side, thumps and groans that were familiar
to his ears. He'd seen House getting up after a binge before and
unwelcome hope began to rise in his chest.
It was so quiet that he could hear the very faint sounds of the
shower and he closed his eyes. He wasn't sure which was
stronger, the relief or the anger.
Taking a deep breath, he quietly went back in, needing to know if
he was imagining things.
No, he wasn't. House was, indeed, in the shower. He shrugged
off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. Going into the kitchen,
he took the roll of paper towels off the counter and proceeded to
methodically clean up the puddle of vomit. Once done, he tidied
up the living room, carefully putting everything away. Returning
the cleaning supplies to the kitchen, he started a pot of coffee,
knowing that House would want some after he got out of the
shower.
He knew, also, that he wasn't ready to face House, so when the
shower shut off, he picked up his coat and let himself out.
_______________________
House dried off and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. He
looked horrible. His eyes were bloodshot and he had a haggard
look to his face that was bad even for him.
He limped his way into the bedroom and got dressed. He wasn't
sure why he was bothering, other than it made him feel more
human, more in control.
He'd lost Wilson. He knew that now. He'd gone too far, done too
much, and now Wilson was gone. He knew that he could get Wilson
back if he just said the right words, did the right thing. But
he'd never known how to say those words or do those things.
That's what he had Wilson for.
He frowned. There was a weird noise coming from the kitchen, an
odd bubbling sound, as if someone had made coffee or something.
He made his way into the kitchen to discover that he hadn't been
imagining things. A fresh pot of coffee had just finished
brewing.
He didn't remember making a pot. He didn't think he'd been
capable of making a pot; maybe he was more fucked up than he
thought.
Whatever the case may be, he was grateful for it. He poured
himself a cup and took it into the living room. It was clean,
bare of any evidence of what had happened earlier.
Okay, he knew that he hadn't cleaned up. Either he'd
hallucinated the whole overdosing thing or Wilson had come back
and patiently cleaned up after him, just like he'd always done.
He dropped onto the couch, suddenly feeling weaker than he'd felt
in a long time. He blinked back tears, biting his lip in an
effort to stop them.
Tritter no longer held any importance. It didn't matter if
Tritter won or not, not anymore. What mattered was this. What
mattered was that Wilson, hurt and betrayed and angry, had done
this for him. What mattered was this friendship that survived
beyond all reason and all logic. Losing a battle of wills
against a bastard of a cop was nothing compared to losing Wilson.
He knew that this was not a gesture of forgiveness or Wilson
making allowances. This was a farewell, or would be if he didn't
do something to reach out.
They had to talk. Really talk, not dance around the topic or
stonewall. He could not allow this friendship die with a final
gesture being cleaning up vomit.
________________________
Wilson could not face his empty hotel room, so he went into the
hospital. He had his practice back and he had work to do.
When he arrived at his office, he found a parcel on his desk that
had obviously arrived after he'd left for the day.
Thankful for the distraction, he sat down at his desk and opened
it. It was a Christmas gift. He blinked in surprise, wondering
who would send him a Christmas present.
Opening the parcel, he found a soft sweater. The card enclosed
in the parcel held a sweet, affectionate note.
"Dear James -
I know you've had a hard year and I just wanted to send you a
little something to let you know that I'm thinking of you. Happy
holidays. Love - Blythe House"
________________________
House tried the hotel first, but when he didn't see Wilson's
Volvo in the lot, he knew where Wilson had to be. Going up to
his office, he stopped by diagnostics to give himself a few
minutes of rehearsal for the upcoming confrontation.
There was a parcel on his desk and he knew immediately that it
was from his mother. She always sent her presents care of the
hospital and she always sent them to arrive as close to Christmas
as possible.
He thought about opening it, but he wasn't in any shape to deal
with his mother's loving gestures right now.
Instead, he went out onto the balcony to check and see if Wilson
was in his office.
He was. Wilson was sitting in his desk chair, with something
soft and woolly in his hands. He was bent over, his face buried
in the something soft and crying his heart out.
House couldn't breathe for a moment. When had he ever seen
Wilson cry? Yeah, he'd seen Wilson on the verge of it a couple
of times, but he'd never actually seen the man break down before.
Had his stupidity really hurt Wilson that much? He knew that
Wilson cared about him, but he'd shied away from actually
noticing the many times Wilson had said and done things that
proved that Wilson truly loved him.
House wasn't sure what to do. He honestly didn't know which was
the better course - to let things lie and save himself and Wilson
the embarrassment, or to go in and confront him and have it out
right now.
Wilson did not cry gracefully and the muted sounds of his grief
and pain were horrible. House took a deep breath and carefully
made his way over the low wall and to Wilson's door. If Wilson
hated him for this, well, it would just add to all the other
reasons Wilson had to hate him.
He rapped lightly on the glass before sliding it open and
slipping in. Wilson jumped at the noise and lifted his head.
Jesus, he looked like shit. He really, really did not cry
gracefully at all. His eyes were puffy and red and his nose was
swollen and there were bright pink spots over his cheekbones,
making them look even more sharply defined.
Wilson's look of surprise faded to one of anger and
embarrassment, but when he spoke his voice was calm and
controlled.
"I thought you were well on your way to choking to death on your
own vomit."
"Yeah, well, I had to pee and when I got back, the vomit was
gone."
"So you came here to see if I had it, so you could get back to
your self destruction?"
"Something like that. However, yours seems to be more
entertaining as well as less painful on my GI tract."
"Get out."
"Look, I know you're pissed at me..."
"Why would I be pissed at you? You've gone from stealing from me
to stealing from the dead. At least he didn't suffer as a
result. He's already dead. I suppose some would think that was
an improvement."
"Wilson, I was in pain..." House started, not sure exactly how
to explain, but he to try.
"Yeah. It hurts. I get that part," Wilson cut in sharply.
"You're also an out of control drug addict. I get that, too. I
also get that you are constitutionally incapable of backing down
and that there's nothing I can do to stop you from self
destructing. What I don't get is what the fuck you're doing
here."
"You came to check up on me."
"Yeah. And find that you stole from one of my dead patients to
feed your drug habit." Wilson shifted to pull out his wallet.
"Here. Go buy your drugs on the street like a real addict. Stop
making me your pusher."
House looked at the bills Wilson flung at him. There must have
been a good five hundred dollars there.
"I guess you got your accounts back," he said, without thinking.
Wilson just shrugged, as if he expected the jibe and House
flinched.
"I sold myself on a street corner," Wilson replied sarcastically.
"If I'm going to jail, I may as well do something to deserve it."
"You're not going to jail," House said quietly. "I'm taking the
deal."
Wilson gave him a level look, then slumped, dropping his face
into his hands.
"You'll hate it."
"Yeah," House agreed. "Tritter's an ass, but he's not worth what
this is doing to you."
To House's surprise, Wilson chuckled and lifted his head. House
shivered at the bitterness he saw there.
"Since when do you care what this is doing to me?"
"Since I saw you sitting here weeping into that... what is that,
anyway?"
"It's a present from your mother." Wilson dug his fingers into
the soft wool, as if expecting House to take it away from him.
"She thought it might cheer me up a bit."
"Obviously, it didn't work."
Wilson looked down at the sweater.
"Since this whole thing started, this is the only time anyone has
made any effort whatsoever to give me any emotional support at
all," Wilson said quietly. "I expected you to be mad at me and I
knew you weren't going to be there for me. I didn't expect to be
facing this all alone."
"All alone? Everybody loves you."
"Yeah. Everybody was right there, supporting me."
"Cuddy was."
"Her only concern at first was whether I had ratted you out.
Then when I did, she went along with the deal because she wanted
her best doctor back," Wilson said, with a truly remarkable lack
of bitterness, but full of bewildered hurt. "Foreman's first
words to me when he found his accounts unfrozen was to ask if I
had betrayed you, since Chase had already denied it. Chase just
gave me a 'better you than me' look and Cameron accused me of
being selfish."
House's knuckles grew white as he clutched his cane in rage. All
of the kids had urged to him to take the deal. Cuddy had tried
blackmailing him into it. He had thought that they'd taken
Wilson's side in this and he'd been angry about that.
Now that he thought about it, Cameron had been acting belligerent
toward Wilson, but he thought she was simply being territorial
about the case.
"Wilson..." House licked his lips as he searched for a way to
put his thoughts into words. "You brought this on yourself.
Wait. Listen to me. You are always helping everyone else. Even
Cameron goes to you for help. You're the strong one, the one
everybody can count on to be there and to make it okay. You're
tough."
"No, I'm not," Wilson denied angrily.
"Yeah, you are. And even if you weren't, that's what they see.
You've got the most depressing specialty in medicine, yet you
still smile. You give emotional support. You don't need it
yourself. Or so they think. Your strong man act is so good that
sometimes even I forget it's an act," House said forcefully.
"I'm taking the deal. For you..."
"You can't do it for me," Wilson yelled. "You have to do it for
yourself. I didn't go through all of this for you to take a
deal, then sabotage it. If you honestly think that rehab is a
waste of time, then let it go. I won't testify against you. Nor
will anyone else. Tritter doesn't have a case. You have
legitimate prescriptions for all the drugs he found."
"And DA goes after you for overprescribing. With the amount
Tritter found, he'll win."
"So?" Wilson shrugged and House caught his breath, suddenly
afraid. Wilson, he realised, really was willing to go to jail.
For him.
"Am I really worth it?" House asked quietly.
"Yes." Wilson didn't hesitate. "If you're still looking for the
conditions to my caring about you, you haven't found them."
"You walked away tonight."
"Caring about you doesn't mean I don't get angry," Wilson
replied. "I left before I could kick you in the head for what
you did."
House said nothing for a moment, then got up to walk slowly to
the door.
"I'm going to tell Tritter I'm taking the deal," House said
firmly. "I knew the moment that you walked out the door that
it's gone too far. You found a way out for me."
"I did what I thought was right."
"Do me a favour. Go one step further and find a way out for
yourself. Do what's right for you. Take the time away from me
to take care of yourself for a change," House ordered.
"And if I don't?"
"I'll have a whole two months to think up ways to force you into
doing what's good for you, whether you want to or not," House
replied, with a smirk. "Isn't that what friends are for?"
"Are we still friends?" Wilson asked quietly.
"We'd better be. Otherwise, my mom sending you clothes is just
creepy."
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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